The Half King of Pop
On the way home from work the other day, a woman on my subway car was playing a strange musical instrument. I can best describe it as some kind of mouth-keytar. It had little piano keys, and inexplicably, she was holding it to her mouth and blowing.
Of course, it sounded terrible. She whipped-out a bone chilling rendition of La Cucaracha and then walked around holding out her hat in an “I just performed for you, pay up deadbeat,” kinda way. When the train stopped, she proceeded to the next car to - I assume - repeat the process.
Obviously, I didn’t give her any of my change. She didn’t earn it. I can burp the whole alphabet in one breath but you don’t see me charging for it. Her performance was terrible. Everyone knew it.
This got me thinking: what is the acceptable level of talent you demand from a street performer before you fork over your change? What does it take for you to reach into your pocket?
I guess some people are actually paying the mouth-keytar lady. Maybe they think she’s “bringing it” in an acceptable fashion. I mean, why else would she do it? Someone must be throwing some change in her hat. I don’t know the woman, but I’m pretty sure that playing the mouth harp from hell on the V-train wasn’t her life’s dream.
So who is actually compensating these terrible performers? Whoever it is, they’re only encouraging them that it’s a good course of action, and thus, allowing for more migraine-inducing performances. Please people; let’s put a halt to this vicious cycle of sucktitude.
Don’t get me wrong, certain people earn it. All I’m saying is that we shouldn’t give free passes. Let’s not lower the bar people! If you reserve your donations for only the truly deserving, it will encourage further excellence. Only pay performers who can do things significantly better than you. I’ve caught some gems in my day. Here’s my top three in a very particular order:
Magic Feet
I spent my semester abroad in Holland, about 40 minutes outside of Amsterdam. On weekends, we’d take the train in and meet friends in Leidzplain, an Amsterdam hot spot lined with bars. It was the perfect stage for street performance. The #1 attraction was some very good break dancers. But my favorite was Soccer Ball Juggling Man, aka Jugg-lor. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, but watching him juggle a soccer ball was like watching a one-man Harlem Globetrotters game. The ball was simply never in danger of touching the ground. No matter what he was using: foot, head, shoulders – whatever. His grand finale was climbing up a lamppost while FLAWLESSLY juggling the ball. It was extraordinary. When the climb necessitated it, he’d switch the juggle between his foot and head, no problems.
Street Gymnastics
I went to college in Baltimore, so walking to the bar was sometimes sketchy. One night my friend Pete and I were walking to a local watering hole and a homeless guy started badgering us for money. We kept going and he followed, pushing further, “Just a dollar, man” he says, “shiiiiit, I’ll do a back flip…” We stopped in our tracks. I turned and said, “If you do a back flip, right here, right now, I’ll give you two dollars.” Pete promised to match. After verifying our willingness to pay, he told us to clear some room. He got into a semi crouch, rocked back and forth a little, then – BAM – executed a perfect back flip. It was quite a thing to see. Stunned, Pete and I gladly handed over the cash, shook his hand, and walked away.
Mini-Michael
At NYC’s 34th St. subway station I saw a crowd of people huddling around what I thought were break-dancers. No big deal. As I got closer, the music grew – it was Thriller. But I didn’t see the crew of b-boys I was expecting. In fact, I didn’t see anyone. Curiosity peaked, and I utilized my height advantage by looking over some shoulders….And what I saw was amazing: a 3-foot man who looked EXACTLY like 1988-Michael Jackson. Penny loafers, black pants, tight white t-shirt, diamond covered glove, pale complexion (makeup most likely), and the perfect amount of Jeri-curl dangling from his fedora. It was SPOT ON. Getup aside, his moves were on point! He handled the ever-important crotch grab / point upwards /scream “hoooooo!” trifecta with eloquence. He hit a grand slam, and this guy was barely taller than his boom box. I want become his agent and book him at parties.
In contrast, I went to a Yankees game recently.* As we walked to the ferry after the game, there were several grown men playing some very primitive recorders. Basically, they were Plexiglas pipes with holes in them. Naturally, it was horrific sounding. They were cranking out When Johnny Comes Marching Home, which ironically enough, used to be my jam.**
Yeah, I dabbled in the recorder. I was also in charge of the “Doop-Doop” noises on a grammar school rendition of Don’t Worry Be Happy. My recorder sessions would usually include at least one Hot Cross Buns segway coupled with a Where They Don’t Wear Pants on the Sunny Side of France encore. I was really good because I had a recorder made of endangered elephant tusk. It makes all the difference.
Of course, the recorder guys didn’t get a dime from me. I was more proficient at their instrument back when I was wearing He-Man underwear. Following their logic, I could read a Berenstain Bears book out loud on the street and expect to be compensated handsomely.
The point is, when it comes to street performers we should be tough but fair. We should only pay-up when they truly earn it. Think of it this way: with a few days of mouth-keytar practice, anyone could bust out an epic version of But no matter how hard you try, you could Hot Cross Buns.never pull off a 3-foot tall King of Pop.
*Yankees lost to the Blue Jays because I willed it to happen.
**When I was six.
Article Series
This article is part 2 of a 3 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
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Not as Good as Internet Porn.... But Read It Anyway
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The Half King of Pop
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The Whackout of '06
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