We just spent the entire summer busking (playing for tips on the street) three days a week on South Street in Philadelphia. At first I was a bit apprehensive about the prospect of foisting music on unsuspecting pedestrians, but it turned out to be a cathartic experience.

For a Catholic school boy who was taught to be quiet and unobtrusive, this was the ultimate rebellion. Once I got past the initial uneasiness - which I had to do every day - it made me feel free and alive, like skydiving does for some.

It also made me a better musician. When you play that many hours, you can't help but improve, and when you're playing uninvited, you'd better be good or people will laugh in your face. I think only one youngster yelled, “You suck,” as he rode by on his skateboard, and that was probably teen hormones talking. Other than that, all responses were positive.

I would often see passersby react to certain lyrics or songs, and think that maybe we just made their day, or unwittingly sent them a message. Music is like that. I once heard someone say, “Music takes me to a place I could never imagine on my own.”

Some folks stuck cell phones right in my face as I was singing to record my voice. I got used to it. Many more took our picture with their phones. Not sure why. Probably because we have a euphonium, which is an unusual sort of brass instrument, or maybe because by busking standards, we're a bit out of the ordinary.

You see, most buskers are either young and tattooed or 100 years old and singing about holes in their shoes. We're somewhere in between. I guess we look like we should have real jobs, but in today's economy, it IS a real job. Just FYI, our best day was $26, and our worst was $2.98 and a SEPTA token.

One of my favorite encounters began when a group of about seven tall, gangly young men stopped right in front of us and just stared. I got a little nervous, and asked the one who seemed to be the leader if he had any requests. He hesitated as if he didn't understand, and then said in a thick Russian accent,
“Amedikin.”
“What, you want something American?”
“Amedikin!”

We started playing Chuck Berry's “Johnny B. Goode,” and instantly they all started dancing like triple-jointed whirling dervishes. A crowd gathered, mostly because no one could get by, and the young men started trying unsuccessfully to get other pedestrians to join in the dancing.

In the midst of all this, one of the kids danced up to me, brandishing a quarter, which he made sure I saw, and threw it into our hat. Whenever I sang “Go Johnny Go,” they all chimed in. Afterwards, they returned to just staring at us. I was afraid to play another song, so I just said, “Thanks, guys, bye-bye,” and they trudged off to who-knows-where.

Another time, a woman stopped her car in the middle of the street, jumped out and said frantically, “What do you sound like?” Our trumpet player blew a note, and the woman said, “Good! I need you at a party tonight. You'll need to play the Italian National Anthem. Other than that, I don't care what you do.”

We spent the next two hours scouring the internet, trying to learn the Anthem. On the list of “Things not to do,” screwing up the Italian National Anthem at a South Philly house party is near the top. In spite of it having more ruffles, flourishes, tempo changes and modulations than any other anthem on God's green Earth, we did eventually learn it - sort of - only to receive a last minute phone call telling us not to come. In any event, we added a new piece to our repertoire.

Our biggest fans by far were kids and dogs. A few dogs barked at the euphonium, but most were happy to see us, seeing as how we were sitting down, and close to their own eye level. We also had a bowl of water for the pooches, into which humans would occasionally mistakenly drop money. Once, a Chihuahua ran off with a dollar, but I chased after him, and he dropped it a block away.

Parents would regularly roll up strollers filled with drooling infants and plant them in front of us like supplicants at some sacred shrine. We'd play a couple of Disney tunes and the little ones would start bouncing, clapping, and singing our praises in gibberish. Scarcely a kid of any age could pass by without gazing at us in awe. There's something about live music that always captures a child's imagination. If the world were made up entirely of kids, my band mates and I would be superstars.

So, after a summer of playing for locals, yokels, drunks, punks, geeks, freaks, and beings of every age, color and species, I can report that South Street is alive and well, and as much as we old hippies hate to admit it, still a pretty groovy place.

(LEFT) Jim and Lynda receiving a certificate of appreciation from South Street Business Association for busking all summer,
(RIGHT) Jim with "Huggy" and her human companion
on South Street, August, 2009