This post is about Heth and Jed’s book, Buskers; The on-the-streets, in-the-trains, off-the-grid memoir of two New York City Street Musicians. I’ll just post quotes from the book here — and suggest that you go out and buy it.
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We became musical Bedouins, settling into a nomadic lifestyle of roving the metropolis with instruments in tow, in search of our next sonic oasis. We called it guerrilla busking: show up, plug in, rock out. Then, wash, dry, and repeat. Years of skateboarding Manhattan’s pockmarked streets put us at a slight advantage, since we already viewed public spaces far differently from the way ordinary civilians did. It turned out that busking was only a minute chromosomal mutation away from skating. Each sterile grey building embankment that had previously beckoned our Tony Aleva skate decks was now a potential concert hall, another stop on our balls-to-the-wall, nonstop tour of Manhattan.
In an effort to add quality real estate to our ever-expanding portfolio of workable performance locations, we investigated prospective venues using a simple litmus test: we’d rock said co-orindates until kicked out, ticketed, or both. The process hipped us to the fact that buskers are perilously positioned on the front lines of the battle to preserve the First Amendment. In the years since we’d scored our fake IDs in Times Square, the city had suffered increasingly from creeping authoritarianism. As the junkies and prostitutes were forced out, it became safer to walk the streets, but it also meant that artists and street performers like us were subject to unprecedented levels of scrutiny and harassment. With little way of induction ceremony, we unintentionally assumed the role of free speech advocates. We’d either rise to the occasion, flipping a primal middle finger to all forms of oppression, or end up crushed by the machine ± which nearly occurred when we naively set up shop on the corner of Broadway and Forty-ninth Street during the Republican National Convention of 2004
Unaware that Times Square was under unofficial martial law lockdown, we kicked off our show with a sincerely patriotic rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but a wandering group of Republican conventioneers, dressed in American flag shirts, took exception to our interpretation and began heckling us.
“Son, if you continue to mock my country’s anthem, I will cut you down where you stand.”
“Okay, sir,” we responded, “whatever you say!”
Then, as if on cue, the cavalry arrived in the form of a group of anarchists, armed with cameras, faces hidden behind black bandanas and shades.
“They have the right to perform here,” they protested. “A little something called free speech. Ever heard of it?”
And just like that, we were caught in the middle of a dick-swinging constitutional debate. Like sharks to a bucket of chum, all the commotion stirred up a nearby pack of riot police. These dudes came heavy, decked out in full body armour, sporting M5s and just itching for something to do.
“What are you two doing?”
“Jamming,” I screamed over Heth’s screeching guitar.
“I can see that. I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”
“We’re here to rock. This is, like…our job, man.”
Probably hoping to find an incendiary device or a shipment of pirated uranium, they poked through our belongings with the butts of their machine guns. By now we’d heard reports that Mayor Bloomberg was capturing RNC protesters with nets and warehousing them on the piers—some seriously scary shit. Though we knew our rights, we treaded carefully, expressing our unwillingness to be searched but not reacting physically when they kept on digging until the head goon called them off, evidently to save the city from more pressing hazards, or else to save themselves from embarrassment.
Even when the Republican National Convention wasn’t in town, entanglements with police were all too commonplace. Their main beef was our flagrant criminal use of amplification. But since strumming acoustically on the deafening streets was like pissing in the rain, we had no alternative but to plug in to be heard. Some cops were cool about it and let us off with a warning, but others handed out ticket after ticket, as if satisfying a personal vendetta. Thank you, sir! May I have another?
“Do you boys have a permit for this rig?”
“Um, no,” we’d usually reply.
“Well, you need a permit to use amplification.”
“Where do we pick one of those up?”
“How’m I supposed to know?”
After a few more fines we had a stroke of luck when the boys from Agua Clara generously turned us on to quality intel on the matter.
“Bros, you go down to Midtown North and ask for Detective Cuomo in Community Affairs. He’ll hook you up.”
Turned out the permit was good for a five-day stretch between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m. but would also set us back $65 ($45 for the first day and $5 for each additional day). It appeared the right to amplified free speech was alive and well in the USA, as long as our wallets were deep enough. But we conjectured that with a little luck, we’d cover that nut on day one and use the rest of the week to turn a profit. Relieved to have finally unraveled the mystery, I double-timed it down to the precinct to score the elusive prize. As I waited in the dilapidated, brick-walled lobby, a group of eight unlucky gentlemen daisy-chained together with communal hand-cuffs were led single file into the dismal holding tank at the back of the building. I found the humdrum, another-day-at-the-office demeanour of the cops overseeing the spectacle a little upsetting.
“Weensteen?” the desk sergeant called out, jolting me out of my anti-authority daydream. “Community Affairs will see you now.”
After approaching the chin-level desk to obtain my building pass, I proceeded to the second floor, where Detective Cuomo interrogated me as I stood fidgeting in his dimly lit office.
“So, Mr. Weinstein, what exactly are we planning on doing out there?”
“Just singing and playing acoustic guitar, sir,” I responded as unthreateningly as possible.
“And what type of music do you play?”
“Acoustic rock.”
“You’re not playing any heavy metal, right?”
“Yes. I mean, no. No, I don’t play heavy metal,” I verified, nervously pondering whether or not the genre had suddenly been outlawed.
“Okay, fill out this paperwork and display the permit when you are performing. Here’s your receipt.”
In parting he admonished, “And if you ever try to forge a permit, I will never grant you one again. Capiche?”
“Capiche,” I replied and headed out the battered, grey, double metal doors, which banged and clanked behind me.
Standing outside the un-air-conditioned turn-of-the-century building, I excitedly examined my certificate:
This is a sound device permt to operate a loud speaker in connection with [Music Performer] Jed Weinstein ad [Location] N/E/C – 58th Street & 5th Avenue. Not to exceed max volume of 85db at ten feet. THIS PERMIT IS REVOCABLE AT ANY TIME.
We were learning how ultra-wary bureaucrats could be when it came to the power of the electrified soapbox±never mind that one of our founding fathers, Ben Franklin, viewed street performing as an effective tool for connecting with his neighbours and influencing popular opinion. He composed songs and poems and jammed in the town square. It is said that this experience was instrumental in forming his opinions regarding free speech.
Subsequently, whenever possible, we enjoyed shoving our hard-won slip of paper into cops’ faces. Funnily, a lot of them had never actually seen one of these suckers before. They’d look at us inquisitively, as if it was something we’d cooked up in Photoshop.
Occasionally, the precinct even appointed us our very own cop to monitor the volume of our shows. He’d typically show up around noon, park his car directly behind us, and then, every twenty minutes or so, emerge to point his Breathalyzer-looking decibel reader directly at our amplifiers.
“Okay, take it down a notch.”
Strum. Strum.
“How’s that?” we’d ask.
“Play…Nope, no way, you guys need to lower down. I mean way down.”
“Dude! The busses passing behind us are ten times louder than we could ever be.” I’d heard classical musicians moan about a conductor riding them like fascist dictator, but this was ridiculous.
Fiver months into a weekly groove that consisted of alternating between the pain-in-the-ass application process and rocking all-day shows, the city mysteriously began denying us access to performance spots. The permit had become an endangered species, and we couldn’t figure out why. In addition, it was impossible to get Community Affairs on the phone to discuss the matter. About three weeks later, Detective Cuomo finally took one of my calls.
“Yes, hi. It’s Jed Weinstein, how are you? I was just wondering if you could tell me which performance locations are currently available for musicians.”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not a talent scout!” he barked. “You know, Mr. Weinstein, this isn’t friggin’ American Idol.”
“Whoa dude,” I said. “Take a chill!”
We were never granted a permit again, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. Somehow our applications (along with thise of all the other street musicians) never made it to the top of the pile. Later on, we understood the full depth of the situation when Mayor Bloomberg sneakily implemented a campaign to privatise the public spaces. He closed down the most traveled thoroughfares to car traffic and turned them into pedestrian malls. The city then rented out our former busking spaces for corporate events and weeklong promotions, charging megacorps upwards of $35,000 a day for the privilege. Why sell sound permits to broke-ass street artists for a paltry $65 when you could pull in a crazy credit default swap-type Wall Street money for the same service?
At least we’d made an honest effort to go legit. Still, we had a ton of fight left in us and weren’t about to let a development like this put an end to our blossoming music career. The show had to go on with or without—no, especially without—Big Brother’s approval.
We likened busking to aural graffiti. It was our duty to scribble our sonic tag and spread outlawed musical seed wherever we could. Shit, if we had anything to say about it, the city streets would always be filled with jugglers, fortune-tellers, mimes, dancers, musicians, magicians, hula-hoopers, and clowns. With this in mind, we went back to feloniously blaring away on the avenues and back to getting ticketed. Only this time, we did what any good corporation does: write those pesky fines off as a business expense.
We were also becoming familiar with the unwritten rules and customs governing the high level of commerce taking place on every street corner. Seemingly the entire populace was engaged in some kind of transaction, with people purchasing everything from fedoras, sunglasses, and I ♥ NY t-shirts (three for ten dollars) to cell phones and wallets. There were hot dog stands, Mister Softee ice cream trucks, and crêpe mobiles. There war bagel and fruit carts, book pedlars, and merchants selling framed pictures of pop icons like Eminem and Kurt Cobain, and that classic shot of John Lennon flashing the two-finger peace sign in front of the Statue of Liberty.
“Where’s the show today, rock stars?” William, a totally chill pashmina salesman, would ask as we passed on our daily spot-hunting ritual.
“Not sure yet,” I replied. “Thinking we might hit Seventh Ave and Forty-ninth.”
“Haven’t seen you guys for a few days, thought you might have retired.”
Now laughing: “Yeah man, I just won the lottery! Didn’t I tell you?”
William gave us the lowdown on vending, explaining that most salesmen were Vietnam vets like he was—the only ones sanctioned by the city to vend on the avenues. They often sublet their permits in the same way a taxi medallion is shared among many drivers, building small dynasties in the process. It was a decent perk for having served your country.
In contrast, the Senegalese, who dressed in bright African caftans, dominated the city’s black market. They were easy to spot from a distance; you just had to look for a horde of crazed tourists clawing over each other like a pack of rabid animals. They displayed illegal knockoffs of Tag Heuer, Movado, and Rolex watches from patent leather briefcases. This made for an easy getaway in the event of an occasional police sweep. To the chagrin of customers, sometimes in mid-purchase the case would be unceremoniously slammed shut, Bob and Edna from bumfuck left standing on the corner slack-jawed, while their sales associate sprinted down the street with their money still in his hand.
With its close proximity to Heth’s apartment, Fifty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue became one of our regular busking venues. More and more, workers from the surrounding buildings began spending their lunch breaks with us, accompanied by newly converted colleagues. When someone asked if we had any music to sell, Heth ran back to his apartment and grabbed a few boxes of the CDs we thought would never see the light of day, the same boxes that until then were being utilised as handy coffee tables and footstools. By the end of that shift we’d sold ten copies, substantially increasing the day’s take. Later that evening I put my graphic skills to use, making a proper FOR SALE sign with a picture of the CD cover. With some fine-tuning image placement, design, and price point, we began blowing through entire boxes and were eventually ready to do something we never thought possible: order more CDs!
Soon after our first CD sales, Paul, a six-foot-seven free speech activist and entrepreneur who could usually be found on the corner of Forty -fifth and Broadway selling LICK BUSH IN 04 bumper stickers, had a word with us. Turned out he was just itching to I’ve us a copy of a letter from the Department of Consumer Affairs outlining exactly which items required a general vendors license.
“Yo guys, if the cops ever try to shut you down for vending CDs without a license, show them this. Fight the power!”
Thus, we learned that while a general vendors license (which, as Will told us, was available only to honourably discharged veterans) is required for the sale of crafts and other merchandise such as figurines, incense, jewellery, clothing, and so forth, the sale of written matter, visual art, music, movies, items bearing political messages, and other First Amendment items, is exempt from this requirement.
Selling our discs united gobs of fans who could now readily share our music with their friends. And not only had we joined the throngs of merchants hawking their wares on the dirty boulevard, but we’d finally become bona fide professional musicians in the process. The results were swift, culminating in an entire lunchtime office crowd singing our song “My Headphones” back to us, word for word. We tried to act cool, like it was no biggie, but we were totally blown away.
My headphones still smell like your Chanel perfume and You left your Springsteen CD in my room and I miss your charges on my credit card ’cause Living without you is just too damn hard
Then, one warm autumn evening, as the Broadway shows were letting out, dumping throngs of people onto the Times Square promenade, and enthusiastic bunch of Swedish kids plopped down on the swanky sidewalk to chill for our show. Soon everyone was doing it, until finally a crowd of hundreds was squatting in front of us. We’d somehow turned a quadrant of one of the most manic places on earth into an intimate living room complete with strangers clapping and grooving along like one big happy family. No small feat. After a few songs, people started lining up to buy our CDs, and within fifteen minutes we’d sold out. It felt great knowing the month’s bills were paid, but even cooler, we’d banked a few places to crash if we ever made it to Sweden.
We seemed to be on a roll. At a show later in the week, our crowd grew beyond anything we’d ever seen before. With each extended guitar solo it tripled in size. Even the traffic on the avenue slowed down to watch us kick ass. People were shouting and hooting, some rode on the tops of vehicles like it was a parade.
Someone yelled, “Hey, you guys have power!”
We smiled back, with a nod. Then some crazy-eyed bald guy with a Marine buzz-cut descended on us.
“You two idiots are causing total chaos. Stop playing right now.”
“Fuck you, man!” we retaliated. “This is a little something called rock’n’roll! Get used to it.”
“Don’t you know there’s a fucking blackout? Get used to that!”
Thanks to our battery-powered show on wheels, we’d unknowingly become the house band for the Blackout of 2003.
Over time, we built up t playing six to eight hours daily, becoming privy to the city’s changing moods. We carried on an affair of sorts, strumming for her as she awoke, yawning and stretching into a new day, then rocking harder in the afternoon, until we slid into bed with our mistress in the relative twilight.
We jammed through all kinds of shifts—swing, night, graveyard, and seismic. Afternoons contained the most insanity, jam-packed with stressed out, red tape-choked bureaucrats mostly rushing past without stopping. After a biblical exodus of office drones on their way back to the outlying bedroom communities, the mania dissipated all at once. Then, the Middle Eastern halal carts emerged, selling meats over spicy curried rice, filling the void of reasonably priced meals in midtown during evening hours. The later it got, the longer the lines grew, sometimes stretching down the block. This left us jamming amidst the lingering evening smog for tourists, pedicab drivers, cabbies, and water late night partiers.
Busking bonded us with the community in ways we never expected. “Heth-and-Jederz” hired us to play private shindigs, everything from baby showers and birthdays to Mother’s Day barbecues. One guy even paid us a thousand bucks to set up in the wine cellar of a SoHo restaurant so we could ambush his girlfriend with their favourite song. As we played “Desert Sun,” he got down on one knee and proposed. We were honoured to be a part of that memorable occasion; luckily she said yes.
And what do I see? Looking through You lift me up when the day is done And what do I see? You know it’s you You warm me up like the desert sun
These days we walked the streets with our heads held much higher, finally contributing something to the world. No longer did we feel like orphans aimlessly adrift in Manhattan. We were becoming part of the cityscape and somewhat locally famous to book.
“I love you guys,” the bodega clerk said as I grabbed my morning café con leche. “My old lady and I are both big fans!”
“Thanks man, what’s your name?”
“Carlos.”
“I’m Jed.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, smiling.
“So what’s the damage, Carlos?”
“Nada man! Say hi to Heth for me.”
Finally, with three hundred and fifty shows under our belt, we’d become the tight live band we’d always hoped to be. We matriculated through the University of the Streets, offering ourselves up as a sacrifice to the purifying fire of the judgmental glare. The scrutiny forced us to evolve more quickly than if we’d been touring for a guaranteed pay check, because if we missed too many notes in a row, the audience would grow impatient and bail on us.
Around this time, with meditation still a steadying force in our lives, Dan began teaching us Reiki, a Japanese energy-balancing method like Shiatsu. Without much forethought, we applied the ancient technique to performance, transmuting the energy of our music into the unsuspecting meridians and chakras of the public. We also took a cue from New Age heroes like Deuter, who composes top-notch healing meditation music, and from buskers like the Andean groups who douse their pan flutes in shiploads of atmospheric digital delay. By combining acoustic, electronic, and spiritual elements, we bathed our listeners in an uplifting wave of energy that, on a good day, could overpower the crush of midtown chaos.
With a couple of extra bucks in our pockets, we could now also afford to invest in the most up-to-date technology, and frequently stopped off at Manny’s Music on Forty-eighth Street to check out the latest in guitar pedals. We picked up anything that looked promising, anything that could help u move our sound that much more toward the modern, dreamy, and interstellar.
We hit our stride after Heth bought a foot-controlled sampler called a Boss Loop Station off of Craigslist. The device allowed him to loop guitar and vocal parts as well as rhythm motifs on the fly, and in so doing, jam over the newly formed grooves. Though it took him awhile to tame that beast, it eventually doubled our audience size (and our salaries) and had the added benefit of helping our tiny duo sound more like a powerful four-piece band.
Looping became one of the hooks that enabled us to grow a fan base while playing only original music. By making fresh loops for each song, we were able to give the full experience of our recorded songs without a pre-recorded karaoke-backing track. After all this time, we’d finally connected the musical dots, creating a live show based on the Grateful Dead method of improvisation: state a theme and take it for a ride through the woods, using the technique we’d been hipped to all those years ago at the Kaiser Convention Center.
Our email list grew with each street show, but it was still mostly filled with out-of-towners. We’d proven our music had global appeal, but in order to accomplish our next goal of packing nightclubs, we needed to rally the locals, which meant relocating our roving rock concert underground.
