We roamed the streets of Rome. It felt empty without buskers, which was a slight relief (and jarring) after Barcelona: Christian Weber’s hectic filming schedule had tired us out and we were struggling to motivate ourselves. In Rome we had no fixer, no contacts, and no definite plan. The Pantheon, Piazza Navona, and Santa Maria de Trastevere had been tipped as potential performer hotspots, but we had no map and the public transport was on strike.

Belle and Chris walking through the streets of Rome

We ignored the muscled Roman Soldiers bantering for photographs in front of the Coliseum; the Egyptian Pharaoh statues, dressed in golden bed sheets, depressed us, and the coffee was expensive. By the time a beer-drinking accordion player wanted twenty euros for a performance, we were seriously questioning our fourth destination.

Maybe it was first impressions.

Barcelona: Venezuelan born Cecilia smiled and kissed our cheeks, she sang with a deep energy, and invited us to her house for arepas and wine. The next day we met Jesse Masterson and Paul Henry; they made me want to grab a guitar and play music on the street, and maybe tattoo my neck. The city had left us with a sense of the passionate street scene that exists in Barcelona. We were shown a world where art battled authority; there had been repression and rebellion. It was exciting.

Rome: that second-rate accordion player, who pissed against the wall after we’d refused his twenty-euro offer. Later in the same afternoon we filmed a group of mediocre musicians in front of the Pantheon and paid five euros. Already our feet were tired. Next a four-member band demanded one hundred euros. They said they were the best band in Rome. We wanted to hear them, if not film, but after an hour of setting up and tuning instruments, the leader of the group approached Nick and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Special price,’ he said. ‘Fifty euros.’

We headed for Piazza Navona.

Rome – graffiti on the street

At the end of that first long day of scouting, as we entered Piazza dei Fiori, a slow controlled dancer with painted white face caught our attention. His movements were awkward and intentional: it was Japanese Butoh dancing, and so unusual we wanted to see more. Usually we watch and listen, approach with a business card and explanation, and then film. With this performer we filmed first, without asking. Maybe we were overly excited, or maybe we were just tired and had forgotten our manners. But it was ok, he smiled and shook our hands, and we scheduled a time to return for a proper shoot and interview.

We slowly stopped comparing Rome to Barcelona, and in doing so Rome began to show itself to us. On our second day there, Belle and I stumbled across a group of break dancers who could flip and spin like superman, and then two tap dancers with matching polka-dot dresses and special shoes adapted for tapping on cobble stones. It was as if, on that first disappointing day, the city had been watching us, trying to decide if we were worthy.

I Legionari: Break Dancers on Via del Corso

Belle and I headed to meet Nick for dinner, excited about our days work. ‘We forgive you,’ we said to Rome. ‘We judged you too soon!’

Tap dancers: Livia Bettinelli (dancing) and Ann Amendolagine (off camera)

But we didn’t get a chance to share our discoveries with Nick, because he had found The Bird Man: a street performer so original and pure that his act borders on magic. Anyone who has seen him sitting amongst his semi-circle of unlikely instruments (including: bells, horns, and grunting hippos), wearing a beaked hat, and creating music, will remember him. Afterwards he spoke about the loss of cultural freedom, the importance of personal interaction, and street artists’ role in art and the community.

The Bird Man

Unfortunately it is not always as simple as artistic integrity (i.e. The Bird Man) versus money-mindedness (i.e. the drunk accordion player). This was made clear to me during a phone conversation I had with the Japanese “Butoh” artist, two days later, fifteen minutes after our appointed meeting time.

‘Your behaviour was unacceptable,’ he said. ‘You just left, with not giving even a euro. You, of all people, should know better.’

I explained that The Busking Project was not a big budget operation. That I thought he wanted to be a part of the project.

‘We are not being paid,’ I said. ‘We are living on people’s couches, shopping for cheap food in local supermarkets, travelling by train and bus. We like to think we are helping you in return for you helping us.’

‘This is my life,’ he said. ‘Good evening to you.’

I was silent for a long time afterwards.

Each city has its own secrets. Each performer their differences. The break-dancers on Via del Corso refused our money, asking only that we share the final video, but on the same street, a string band demanded payment. We can’t afford to pay all our performers, but we’d like to. We believe in what The Bird Man said, and know that Buskers are doing a great thing for the urban landscape.

But so many people stop to take photos or to listen, and so few leave the hat fuller than they found it. The Japenese “Butoh” artist – a perfect clash of art and money – really made me stop and think about how the artists perceive us, as audience and project. Who are we to Rome and it’s performers? Maybe we think we’re more important than we are – taking and not tipping, camera exploitation with good intent, just another camera-click in their lives.

Chris Smith