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THE BOSTON GIG
By Keith Harris

China Town - 1996
The seated pretty black woman had missed three trains and I became aware that she was listening to the songs I was busking on the platform. Suddenly she stood as another train pulled in and briskly walking past me to the carriage door she stooped and dropped something into my open guitar case.

They were two $38 tickets to the 1996 Boston Music Awards, being staged at the city's Orpheum Theatre. I waved a thank-you as the subway train pulled away and she smiled an acknowledgement back.

Getting back to my Revere apartment that night I vowed to go and see the show. When the day arrived I turned up early with my guitar to check out the theatre, thinking perhaps of busking either before or after the show.

I’d been living Stateside for some months. They'd got to know me across Boston, from my busking on the T to riding the city on my Peugeot cycle, guitar strapped to my back, amplifier on the carry-all and microphone stand strapped to the crossbar. When I chose to take them along, that is, which was whenever I thought I might be passing, say, Harvard Square or some such place.

So. There I was, living out at Revere, just a short ride from the beach. God knows how many times I rode up and down that prom. I’ve a few stories from there too, I can tell you. I think I amassed more stories in my 12 months in the US than even when I was working for a newspaper, which is saying something, believe me.

So. There I was one evening, busking away at Chinatown on the Orange line. It was a tough station to busk, but was one of my regular spots along with Government Centre, State, Downtown Crossing and a few others to boot. Each had its own atmosphere, its own mood.

I’d been playing for some time. I needed a few bucks to supplement the money I was earning at a few other jobs. Living on your own in a foreign country can be a tough cookie too. After a while I became aware of the attractive black woman close by who had skipped a couple of trains. Being evening, trains were not so regular. She stood suddenly as a train pulled in and passing me gave me a smile and dropped her gift into my open guitar case. I spotted two blue stubs of paper and paused in my song to examine them. They were the two tickets to the annual Boston Music Awards. I waved a hand and called out a thank-you as the train began pulling out. She smiled back through the window.

Two tickets, priced at $38 each to the show at the Orpheum Theatre! Wow! The show was coming up the next month, in three weeks time. I wondered if perhaps she was a press agent for the theatre. I never saw her again. Whoever you were, God loves ya.

I knew the theatre-in fact I knew the city of Boston remarkably well, having driven a limo around for a while, worked in removals and spent countless hours riding my bike and walking around the city, even in the depths of the cold winter of ’95/96.

Eventually the day arrived. I’d made up my mind to go to the show and took along my guitar, intending to either play somewhere near the theatre before the show or after, when the folk were leaving. The Orpheum is in a cul-de-sac, Hamilton Place, though narrow lanes leave at the side and to the rear. I walked past the entrance and around the side, then returned, thinking it was perhaps a bit early. The show wasn’t due to start for a while yet.

Then a guy in a black suit, white shirt and tie beckoned at me from the entrance. I approached. He was smiling. I guess with my long hair in a pony tail, leather coat and guitar, I looked different.

“You playing tonight?” he asked.

“I guess-maybe later,” I replied, just being honest and not smart.

“Come on in,” he said, ushering me in through the entrance. He seemed eager to please and gave me a quick tour, showing me the bar, then took me backstage to the wings. The stage was awash with equipment, it looked like it was going to be one hell of a good concert.

“You hungry?” my host asked and pointed to some stairs going down. “Just go on down and help yourself to food, it’s all laid on.”

I was starving and could smell the food.

Cheers, I said, and propped my guitar against some amplifiers-there was so much equipment it seemed lost-and went to the food counter.

“See you later,” said my host, leaving with a smile. I guessed he’d gone back to his post at the door.

I grabbed a plate of chicken salad and tucked in. Nobody questioned me, everybody just said hello and hi. It looked like a roadie’s convention down there. After a while I headed back to my guitar, taking some coffee and the remains of my meal on the disposable plate, munching away happily and wondering where I might leave the guitar when the show got under way.

Then a young guy approached, asking me what “was I doing here?”

“I’m here to see the show. One of your staff brought me back here to show me the stage and told me to get some food”, I told him. He wasn’t happy with that, I could see.

You’re not supposed to be here, he said. Fine, I said, I’ll head out back front. I asked if I coudld take my plate of food with me. Well, you would, wouldn't you? No he said, and then at that point the newcomer, who I will call goofball, picked up my guitar and walked off with it at a fast pace down a narrow passage.

“Hey, hang on, that’s my guitar,” I called after him. He ignored me. I set off after him, calling to him to hang on. He continued to ignore me and as he approached a side fire exit I had the certain feeling that he was going to eject the guitar and me through it. I caught up with him and put a friendly but firm hand on his shoulder. Nobody walks off with my guitar. Then all hell broke loose.

I don’t know where they came from, but the next thing I knew was being roughly grabbed by several pairs of hands and being hauled off my feet. I began struggling-this wasn’t my idea of friendship, hospitality and fun. There were six of them, one held each limb and one had me by the collar and they were not being friendly. I was dragged complaining through the theatre, into the main auditorium in front of the stage and then dragged up the long central aisle as people were filtering into the theatre and taking up their seats for the show.

I yelled at them that I was under assault and shouted to anyone who could hear to call the cops. I was unable to struggle free. Nobody seemed to pay the least mind to what was happening to me. I was dragged through the theatre and thrown roughly into the street some yards outside the main front entrance. Whoever was carrying my guitar put it down beside me, then they were gone. I gathered myself to my senses and notice a pair of dark trousered legs close by. A cop. I got up and dusted myself off and checked my guitar, all was OK. I approached the cop.

“Excuse me, you saw that officer, you’re my witness. I was just assaulted by those guys and thrown from the theatre for no good reason.” He observed me and asked what I was doing in the theatre. I noticed one of the goons who had manhandled me was now watching from the theatre entrance.

I told the cop I was there to see the show and he asked if I had tickets. I drew them from my wallet and he observed the still valid press identification badge I carried with me with its expiry date of June 1997. I handed the tickets to the cop and he began examining them.

The goon in the doorway had walked up to the cop and hearing some of the conversation took the tickets from the officer’s hand, ripped them up and gave them to me, saying “now they’re no good, are they?”, before returning to the theatre door. The cop did nothing.

I reiterated that he was my witness to events and asked for his identification. His reply was to tell me that I’d have to leave. When I tried to discuss the matter, the cop-he looked like a young rookie to me-simply repeated that I would have to leave.

I said OK, where should I leave to, and he said that I must leave the jurisdiction of the theatre. I asked where that was and he stated “the end of the street”.

That’s funny, said I, I can see some businesses that have nothing to do with the theatre just here in the street. I told him that I wasn’t arguing, and started to walk slowly down the street, asking him again for his identification and explaining that I was not happy with what had occurred.

I tried again. “Could I please have your identification officer?” I asked, but instead the cop grabbed hold of me and thrust me against a wall, putting handcuffs on me with my hands behind my back. He called on his radio. In less than no time at all a prowl car zipped into the street, I was bundled in and taken to the city jail, where I was fingerprinted, asked a bunch of pretty meaningless questions and allowed a telephone call. The person I called didn’t answer and I left a message on his answer phone.

Yeah, the cop said, you can go if your friend comes and stands bail. He never did. I spent the night in the cells and the next day was hauled before the judge at Boston central court, after being given a public defender, a helpful young woman. I was granted bail in my own recognizance with the judge’s admonition that I “stay away from the theatre while on bail”.

Don’t worry, your honour, I don’t wish to go back to a place that treats people like they treated me, I said. He laughed, banged his gavel and set a date for the return hearing the following month.

I’d accidentally overstayed my visa and had tried unsuccessfully to renew it. The cops at the station never asked me any questions concerning that aspect. When I again met up with the young public defender I put my cards fully on the table and told her that I was mad at the treatment I’d received and wished to pursue action against the theatre staff responsible. She said we could look at that later, but for now she had to work on getting me out of the jam I had landed in. I felt it was a jam I had been put in.

On the day of the hearing, the public defender told me that the prosecution had indicated a willingness to drop the case. I thought that wise of them, they had no case anyway and I would have fought. She advised me to accept their offer, to avoid complications, as she put it. I agreed, and told the judge so.

“Case dismissed. The defendant will pay $150 court costs,” I disbelievingly heard the judge state. Court costs? After the case was dismissed, meaning no charges, no guilt?

“Do you wish for time to pay, ”asked the judge. I told him I’d need at least a year, and he ordered me to pay in three months. I never paid a cent out of sheer principle. I met the pulic defender over coffee after the hearing and discussed options, including my status as a visitor. I was unable to pursue the matter further due to the fact that I had to leave the US for other reasons just a few months later.

Oh well. Some things are like that.

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BUSKING ON THE BEACH
By Keith Harris

Despite playing music in public since the age of five, I didn't get around to busking until many, many years later. It simply never occurred to me, though I could have done with the cash many times over.

Like when I joined my first pro rock band at about 17 and lived in a trailer on a communal site and survived on bread, marmalade and tea for several weeks. The first time I set my open guitar case down with a view to earning some change from passers-by was in Galway in the spring of 1995, nearly 30 years later. It was an eerie experience as I didn't really remember that many songs from start to finish, and my knowledge of Irish songs was next to zilch with the exception of one of two Van the Man Morrison numbers.

Still, I earned a few quid, or punts as they were then. I had no income at the time and was travelling the country in a camper, it was necessary to busk. I hit Dublin's Grafton Street, and Dublin's other city centre busking spots, busked all over Galway, and after several months had busked in dozens of locations across Ireland from Westport to Waterford and Doolin. I was surprised when after joining a travelling American at the Youghal busking festival we snatched third place as a combo with the name of Pheobe. We went on to busk at several other locations, gaining a slot on 2FM national radio from a live broadcast at Killarney, before we again split to continue on our ways.

I left Ireland in the autumn of 1996 for the USA, arriving in Boston with just a few hundred dollars left and squeezing through immigration by the skin of some contacts in my address book. I'd had to purchase a second ticket from London when airline officials explained that the single ticket I held to Boston was useless as I would not be permitted to stay in the US without a return ticket. Why the travel agency in Youghal where I'd purchased the ticket didn't explain this I don't know, particularly as a return was more or less the same price as the £250 I'd paid for a single ticket. I was also charged an extra £120 for "excess baggage" by the Irish airline on which I flew to London for the first hop of the trip to the US-a radical rip off.. The new ticket took away a much needed £500 from the cash I'd been banking on to get established in Boston.

Three days later I was down to just $200, despite having been booked into a Boston hotel by a friend who paid the $200 plus bill for my stay. She'd returned to New York after spending a few days with me and I was suddenly faced with being alone in what to me then was the unknown city of Boston.

After spending almost the whole of my last day at the hotel telephoning accommodation advertisements without success I was about to drop into deep despair when I received one telephone call in response to a message I had left somewhere. My caller proved to be something of a saviour and after a long chat on the phone agreed that I could take the room he was renting without seeing me, though I did go out that evening to meet him at the house in Revere.

A taxi-driver collected me from the Boston city centre hotel the next morning and helped me pack the six large bags, rucksack and guitar in his taxi before running me to the bus station. I'd packed practically everything I'd had with me in the camper van except the tool kit and various other large items as I'd not intended returning to Ireland and was uncertain just where I would eventually end up.

The chatty black taxi driver had questioned me on the way to the bus station and so learned a little of my story. As we unloaded the bags from his taxi he asked how I intended getting all the stuff to where I was going. I didn't realise that the bus would stop about half a mile from the address I was heading for and yep, it would have been a problem.

"I'll manage," I told him. I would have too, though I would have been like a triple loaded packhorse and the trip from the bust stop just might have killed me.

As he took the last bag from the taxi, he suddenly shrugged and started loading everything back into his cab.

"Hell, look, I'll take you out there for nothing. I play music too, and buddy, you'll never carry all this stuff, believe me."

He was right of course. We had a good talk on the way to the Harris Street address in Revere and though he tried to refuse it, I pressed one of my last valuable $20 bills into his hand and would not let him give it back. He wished me well and we parted.

I gave my new landlord, with who I would share the large upper floor apartment in the detached house, $150 of the $275 he wanted, promising to repay him the debt as soon as I could. I was left with just $10.

Talking by telephone to my friend in New York later that day, she suggested I went down to the Kells Bar in Boston's Irish quarter and let it be known that I had newly arrived from Ireland and desperately needed a job.

"Grab a seat over there, there's a fella coming in soon I can introduce you to," the barman said when I told him my story. I'd also bought a beer with my last few bucks, having travelled in on the T.

The 'fella' did come in, and after the barman introduced us my new acquaintance immediately bought me a drink before asking me: "What can you do?"

"I'll do anything," I said, meaning it. I was fit then and felt able to take on any task.

"Okay. We're renovating a bar in Brighton. Its called The Irish Village. Be there at 8am tomorrow. You'll get $100 a day in your hand," he said, and after shaking my hand and buying me another drink he was gone to talk with someone else.

I travelled home on a cloud of good feeling. I'd only been in Boston four days, had run out of cash but I had enough to get the subway to work the next morning to start earning money.

My new landlord, who'd once been a DJ on a west coast radio station and had also been a frontman singer in a band was surprised and pleased to hear I'd got work and generously lent me $20 to get me through the next day. "You gotta have some cash in your pocket buddy," he said.

After several cups of coffee at a nearby Dunkin' Donuts I was getting worried the next morning when by 9.45am still no-one had turned up at the Irish Village. It didn't look as if any work was in progress and I started getting suspicious that maybe I'd been taken in on a sick prank.
But no, shortly after 10am my new employer arrived, with two other workers and we began our job of stripping the external varnished woodwork before re-varnishing it.

That lunchtime we sat in the pub and our boss bought everybody beers, something he did every day at lunchtime and also at the end of the working day. That evening I was given $100, just as he'd said. "Start at 10 tomorrow," he said as I left for home.

Travelling home high with the cash, I heard several proficient buskers working the T stops and the idea of trying my own hand began to germinate, but I didn't get around to starting until the job I had was finished seven days later.

After speaking with several busking musicians I felt I had a good idea of the lay of the land, which stations were among the better, and also knew about the busking potential around Faneuil Hall and Harvard Square. I also had a list of venues where sessions or 'open mic' evenings took place.

The day after my job ended with the completion of our work on The Irish Village, I took time out to buy a microphone stand and microphone for my small battery amplifier and set off for my first Boston busk. I made my start on the outbound Blue Line platform at Government Centre. It had good acoustics and would be a good testing ground for the amplifier and sound balance.

It soon became obvious to me that the small Yamaha amplifier was not able to handle a guitar and vocal input, and although I used a pre-amp pedal the sound left much to be desired. I did find a working level, but the volume was very low and I knew I'd need a better amplifier. I made several dollars, moved on to another station and made several more and by the end of my first session I was carrying an extra $40 dollars home. I knew then that I could do better.

Daddy's music store in Massachusetts Avenue had a bargain basement but the Mouse street amps where just above my budget. I asked the guy behind the counter what he'd give me for my small and for my needs relatively useless amp.

"No more than 15 dollars," he said. "What are you looking for?"
I told him I needed a street amp for busking and after giving me a quick scrutiny he went off with the words 'hang on'.

When he returned he was carrying a brand new boxed amplifier, not a Mouse but an equally good sturdy piece of equipment with twin inputs. "$120," he said.

I told him and didn't think I had enough and he told me to put my money on the table. It came to $95 and I took $10 back to have something in my pocket.

"I owe you $15 for your Yamaha, that makes £100. That'll do," he said and passed the new amp to me. I thanked him sincerely for his generosity and that night with the new amp I made $70.

Busking was to prove an invaluably entertaining lifestyle, introducing me to a vast range of people, skills and small talk talent. At a busy time at the busier stations, buskers had just a few minutes to entertain their audience of perhaps a hundred before the next train arrived to whisk them away and the process started over. They had to like what they heard in the short time if you were to see their dollars and quarters.

Slacker times were easier, you could get around to performing several numbers in between each train. The Boston subway also proved to house a wealth of talent. Musicians travelled from distant states for the rich pickings and the quality of performers was astonishing. I saw and heard everything from keyboard players, solo bass artistes, flute, harmonica, string and percussion players including a Jamaican kettle drum, and guitarists and just plain singers. Henry, a black flute player was an enigma.

A former Berkelee College instructor, he lived wherever he found himself and spent most of his earnings on beers and cocaine. One day seeing I lacked a trolley for my gear, he took me out to a storage unit in west Boston where he had enough stuff to fill a house. "Been here a few years now. Got nowhere to put it any more but I hang onto it," he said, giving me a luggage trolley that I still have to this day. He wanted just $5 for it, so I took him off to breakfast after.

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Keith Harris
April 21, 2016

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BUSKING ON THE BEACH
By Keith Harris

Despite playing music in public since the age of five, I didn't get around to busking until many, many years later. It simply never occurred to me, though I could have done with the cash many times over.

Three days later I was down to just $200, despite having been booked into a Boston hotel by a friend who paid the $200 plus bill for my stay. She'd returned to New York after spending a few days with me and I was suddenly faced with being alone in what to me then was the unknown city of Boston.

"I'll manage," I told him. I would have too, though I would have been like a triple loaded packhorse and the trip from the bust stop just might have killed me.

As he took the last bag from the taxi, he suddenly shrugged and started loading everything back into his cab.

"Hell, look, I'll take you out there for nothing. I play music too, and buddy, you'll never carry all this stuff, believe me."

He was right of course. We had a good talk on the way to the Harris Street address in Revere and though he tried to refuse it, I pressed one of my last valuable $20 bills into his hand and would not let him give it back. He wished me well and we parted.

I gave my new landlord, with who I would share the large upper floor apartment in the detached house, $150 of the $275 he wanted, promising to repay him the debt as soon as I could. I was left with just $10.

Talking by telephone to my friend in New York later that day, she suggested I went down to the Kells Bar in Boston's Irish quarter and let it be known that I had newly arrived from Ireland and desperately needed a job.

"Grab a seat over there, there's a fella coming in soon I can introduce you to," the barman said when I told him my story. I'd also bought a beer with my last few bucks, having travelled in on the T.

The 'fella' did come in, and after the barman introduced us my new acquaintance immediately bought me a drink before asking me: "What can you do?"

"I'll do anything," I said, meaning it. I was fit then and felt able to take on any task.

"Okay. We're renovating a bar in Brighton. Its called The Irish Village. Be there at 8am tomorrow. You'll get $100 a day in your hand," he said, and after shaking my hand and buying me another drink he was gone to talk with someone else.

I travelled home on a cloud of good feeling. I'd only been in Boston four days, had run out of cash but I had enough to get the subway to work the next morning to start earning money.

My new landlord, who'd once been a DJ on a west coast radio station and had also been a frontman singer in a band was surprised and pleased to hear I'd got work and generously lent me $20 to get me through the next day. "You gotta have some cash in your pocket buddy," he said.

That lunchtime we sat in the pub and our boss bought everybody beers, something he did every day at lunchtime and also at the end of the working day. That evening I was given $100, just as he'd said. "Start at 10 tomorrow," he said as I left for home.

Travelling home high with the cash, I heard several proficient buskers working the T stops and the idea of trying my own hand began to germinate, but I didn't get around to starting until the job I had was finished seven days later.

After speaking with several busking musicians I felt I had a good idea of the lay of the land, which stations were among the better, and also knew about the busking potential around Faneuil Hall and Harvard Square. I also had a list of venues where sessions or 'open mic' evenings took place.

Daddy's music store in Massachusetts Avenue had a bargain basement but the Mouse street amps where just above my budget. I asked the guy behind the counter what he'd give me for my small and for my needs relatively useless amp.

"No more than 15 dollars," he said. "What are you looking for?"
I told him I needed a street amp for busking and after giving me a quick scrutiny he went off with the words 'hang on'.

When he returned he was carrying a brand new boxed amplifier, not a Mouse but an equally good sturdy piece of equipment with twin inputs. "$120," he said.

I told him and didn't think I had enough and he told me to put my money on the table. It came to $95 and I took $10 back to have something in my pocket.

"I owe you $15 for your Yamaha, that makes £100. That'll do," he said and passed the new amp to me. I thanked him sincerely for his generosity and that night with the new amp I made $70.

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BUSKING ON THE BEACH By Keith Harris

Despite playing music in public since the age of five, I didn't get around to busking until many, many years later. It simply never occurred to me, though I could have done with the cash many times over.

Three days later I was down to just $200, despite having been booked into a Boston hotel by a friend who paid the $200 plus bill for my stay. She'd returned to New York after spending a few days with me and I was suddenly faced with being alone in what to me then was the unknown city of Boston.

"I'll manage," I told him. I would have too, though I would have been like a triple loaded packhorse and the trip from the bust stop just might have killed me.

As he took the last bag from the taxi, he suddenly shrugged and started loading everything back into his cab.

"Hell, look, I'll take you out there for nothing. I play music too, and buddy, you'll never carry all this stuff, believe me."

He was right of course. We had a good talk on the way to the Harris Street address in Revere and though he tried to refuse it, I pressed one of my last valuable $20 bills into his hand and would not let him give it back. He wished me well and we parted.

I gave my new landlord, with who I would share the large upper floor apartment in the detached house, $150 of the $275 he wanted, promising to repay him the debt as soon as I could. I was left with just $10.

Talking by telephone to my friend in New York later that day, she suggested I went down to the Kells Bar in Boston's Irish quarter and let it be known that I had newly arrived from Ireland and desperately needed a job.

"Grab a seat over there, there's a fella coming in soon I can introduce you to," the barman said when I told him my story. I'd also bought a beer with my last few bucks, having travelled in on the T.

The 'fella' did come in, and after the barman introduced us my new acquaintance immediately bought me a drink before asking me: "What can you do?"

"I'll do anything," I said, meaning it. I was fit then and felt able to take on any task.

"Okay. We're renovating a bar in Brighton. Its called The Irish Village. Be there at 8am tomorrow. You'll get $100 a day in your hand," he said, and after shaking my hand and buying me another drink he was gone to talk with someone else.

I travelled home on a cloud of good feeling. I'd only been in Boston four days, had run out of cash but I had enough to get the subway to work the next morning to start earning money.

My new landlord, who'd once been a DJ on a west coast radio station and had also been a frontman singer in a band was surprised and pleased to hear I'd got work and generously lent me $20 to get me through the next day. "You gotta have some cash in your pocket buddy," he said.

That lunchtime we sat in the pub and our boss bought everybody beers, something he did every day at lunchtime and also at the end of the working day. That evening I was given $100, just as he'd said. "Start at 10 tomorrow," he said as I left for home.

Travelling home high with the cash, I heard several proficient buskers working the T stops and the idea of trying my own hand began to germinate, but I didn't get around to starting until the job I had was finished seven days later.

After speaking with several busking musicians I felt I had a good idea of the lay of the land, which stations were among the better, and also knew about the busking potential around Faneuil Hall and Harvard Square. I also had a list of venues where sessions or 'open mic' evenings took place.

Daddy's music store in Massachusetts Avenue had a bargain basement but the Mouse street amps where just above my budget. I asked the guy behind the counter what he'd give me for my small and for my needs relatively useless amp.

"No more than 15 dollars," he said. "What are you looking for?" I told him I needed a street amp for busking and after giving me a quick scrutiny he went off with the words 'hang on'.

When he returned he was carrying a brand new boxed amplifier, not a Mouse but an equally good sturdy piece of equipment with twin inputs. "$120," he said.

I told him and didn't think I had enough and he told me to put my money on the table. It came to $95 and I took $10 back to have something in my pocket.

"I owe you $15 for your Yamaha, that makes £100. That'll do," he said and passed the new amp to me. I thanked him sincerely for his generosity and that night with the new amp I made $70.

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BUSKING ON THE BEACH
By Keith Harris

"No more than 15 dollars," he said. "What are you looking for?"
I told him I needed a street amp for busking and after giving me a quick scrutiny he went off with the words 'hang on'.