Walk On By

Street entertainment is part of what makes cities so fantastic to live in, to visit, to participate in. I remember back-flips on the subway in Manhattan, puppet shows in Paris; I distinctly recall the weird carnivalesque atmosphere of the Wharf, as a kid, walking by motionless figures on pedestals who were activated into motion by the drop of a coin into their can. Sure, a small town is apt to have its own brand of eccentric or two. And lord yes, there are those half-baked performances that just beg for a streetside gong. But I really love the unexpected serenades which play against the theater of the city street.

Arias on Maiden Lane. That killer jazz trio I caught outside Amoeba in Berkeley, banging out hard bop with a cardboard box kick drum and a broken hi-hat. Or fright-mystic raconteur Omer, stepping out of a doorway on Valencia St to scare rock the shit out of you.

One of my favorite buskers is a guy who seems to go by “T” or “Charles T”. I usually see him at the northernmost end of the Powell St station. His presence is striking: dark skin, white guitar, playing against the monolithic white pebbled surface of the station walls. It’s a bit like walking onto the set of THX 1138 and seeing Jesus. I say this because the man’s voice is a revelation. You can hear him long before and long after you see him playing. He has made this hall his studio and wrapped the corners of it with his voice. Where the plaintive soul of Al Green meets a meditative but slow-burning african guitar strum, T sings originals that will sincerely stop you in your tracks. That’s what his music always does to me.