After a winter break I’ve resumed ‘squeezing my box’ on the streets of Tavira.
Although my takings by no means constitute a decent salary, I enjoy it.
I’ve only really started to play outdoors since the end of last summer. Prior to that I wasn’t a confident busker. I suffered from sweaty hands, my fingers prone to slipping from the buttons.
It took me quite some time before working up the courage to be anywhere people may have the chance of hearing me. Preferring desserted streets, telephone boxes or hilltops. And if some lost traveller happened along I would immedialtely stop playing and pretend to be polishing the instrument, my reflection already clearly visible in it’s gleaming wooden surface.
In the summer the town is host to 6 or 7 regular street artists and although there is no official pecking order, I tend to defer to those whose weather beaten faces and well worn hats indicate hard years strumming or blowing, exposed to the elements.
Apart from the obvious discomfort of playing under a blazing sun, weather conditions pose further problems. The ‘Roman’ bridge is Tavira’s prime spot but my Castagnari instrument is small and produces a lovely tone but relatively low volume, easily blown away on the slightest breeze.
I’m conscious also of houses with open windows having once been told to ‘sling my hook’ by an old lady from her 2nd floor balcony. I could appreciate her annoyance but think she went too far, spitting on me as I packed up.
Repetoire is another important consideration and as mine is limited I choose spots where the punters have little oppurtunity to hang around.
My preferred venue is against the wall of one of Tavira’s many churches, offering a view over the town. I tend to play slow, melancholic numbers, or just decrease the tempo of otherwise perkier tunes. Now and again I reckon they hit the mark as an occasional onlooker will dab a tear from their eye before quickly moving on.
Although my takings by no means constitute a decent salary, I enjoy it.
I’ve only really started to play outdoors since the end of last summer. Prior to that I wasn’t a confident busker. I suffered from sweaty hands, my fingers prone to slipping from the buttons.
It took me quite some time before working up the courage to be anywhere people may have the chance of hearing me. Preferring desserted streets, telephone boxes or hilltops. And if some lost traveller happened along I would immedialtely stop playing and pretend to be polishing the instrument, my reflection already clearly visible in it’s gleaming wooden surface.
In the summer the town is host to 6 or 7 regular street artists and although there is no official pecking order, I tend to defer to those whose weather beaten faces and well worn hats indicate hard years strumming or blowing, exposed to the elements.
Apart from the obvious discomfort of playing under a blazing sun, weather conditions pose further problems. The ‘Roman’ bridge is Tavira’s prime spot but my Castagnari instrument is small and produces a lovely tone but relatively low volume, easily blown away on the slightest breeze.
I’m conscious also of houses with open windows having once been told to ‘sling my hook’ by an old lady from her 2nd floor balcony. I could appreciate her annoyance but think she went too far, spitting on me as I packed up.
Repetoire is another important consideration and as mine is limited I choose spots where the punters have little oppurtunity to hang around.
My preferred venue is against the wall of one of Tavira’s many churches, offering a view over the town. I tend to play slow, melancholic numbers, or just decrease the tempo of otherwise perkier tunes. Now and again I reckon they hit the mark as an occasional onlooker will dab a tear from their eye before quickly moving on.
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