When a blog post starts with ‘Back in my day..’ either the writer is a forty-something Mother of two, about to launch a tirade against the younger generations, or they’re an old man who’s on the verge of offending a large swathe of people from various ethnic backgrounds.
I’m starting this post with the intention of writing the former, but its a slippery slope from forty-something Mother of two to bigoted old man.
I love music.
So the acoustic busker is a dying breed – it follows that a music lover such as myself, who cares deeply for 70s acts such as Joni Mitchell and Simon & Garfunkel, should be fully behind the new generation of street performers. I honestly would be…if they were playing acoustically.
I see the act of busking as being one of the ultimate tests of performance skills. Not only are you presenting yourself to an unwilling audience, but you are also stripping down your music to the bare bones. No microphone, no amplifier – the street is the stage. You have no aid in being seen or heard; all you can do is sing and play as loud as you physically can, and hope someone stops to watch and flip you a coin or two.
Back in my day, this is exactly what busking was all about. It evolved from the formation of Skiffle bands in the 50s who would tour Village and County Shows, leaving their hats out for the odd coin. Their performances were brave, outgoing and entertaining.
Now, however, buskers don’t play by those rules. With improvements made in the field of amplification and digital media, it is possible for one man with a guitar to make more noise than 50 screaming men with guitars. So, the High Street stopped becoming an open forum for musicians who could play to their heart’s content; heard by just the people passing by and became a whole different beast. You can hear 2016’s buskers from half a kilometre away, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that someone was simply blasting commercial radio.
Slick teens feign angst, strumming generically on their semi-acoustic guitars cranked to 11. These modern-day crooners turn each Top 40 Chart Hit into a shambling acoustic cover and indulge in a level of oversinging that would make Mariah Carey herself cringe. Inspired by acts such as Ed Sheeran and Lukas Graham, their banter between songs belies the fallacy of their performance. Nervously stumbling over their words in their local dialect, their presence leaves a lot to be desired and makes their clumsily arranged covers appear even more childish.
Then you have the Britain’s Got Talent/X Factor wannabe. Usually flanked by her Father or burly brother, these performers (if we can use those words) have the audacity to bring a PA system and complete setlist of backing tracks with them. Once more, all songs will be pillaged from a standard selection of hits and ‘classics’, with the dizzying heights of Beyonce and Celine Dion being reached for on a regular basis. With an epic, pre-recorded orchestral backing – these young people delude themselves into performing sets that even the hardiest of pros wouldn’t touch.
The last stereotype that most people will come across, is perhaps the saddest of all. A man, in his 30s, struggling to keep his coordination in check to perform basic David Gray covers. He doesn’t listen to music that he can’t strum out in the same monotonous pattern, and he only knows how to play basic chord shapes, despite having played guitar for the best part of two decades. When he sings his limited selection of Brit-Pop covers, he attempts to sound disaffected like Liam Gallagher or shake his hips like Iggie Pop, forgetting that those people are rockstars and he is not.
These ‘performers’ are a blight on our modern High Street. In an age where it’s hard enough to convince people of the merits of live music, these charlatans create noise in the most innocuous fashion. They lower the standards of our rich history of performance to that of a reality television show – prizing emulation and reiteration over honesty and ingenuity.
It is a general rule in cities not to feed the birds. They flock in large numbers to pick crumbs off the floor, make noise and shit everywhere. Don’t give these pigeons anything, otherwise soon their inoffensive shit will be threatening more than just your High Streets.