passing the collection plate

good morning ~

(click the link / Quincy shore to listen)

My Big Breakpassing the collection plate

today’s track was recorded what I think of as “Ged-style” - stereo out from the mixer, two tracks and the truth

today’s newsletter is like twelve hours late! I was extremely zonked when I got home from Allston last night. Which probably only matters to me but I felt like I had to acknowledge it. I will try to do better.

my robust slate of May shows continues with a couple of West Coast dates next week - I’m gonna be in Los Angeles doing two extremely cool ones, here comes the info ~

first up, I’ll be at Solarc Brewing on Wednesday the 28th with Dustin Wong, a musician I’ve admired for a super long time. We’re going to each do solo sets then play a bit together as well, should be very sick - here’s a flyer:

then on Saturday I’m going to be performing live on the air in the early afternoon at dublab as a part of their annual membership drive alongside elijah jamal asani in an event organized by Noah from ecological music presenters Living Earth - you can tune in or attend IRL with an RSVP here, and here’s da flyer:

okay hope to see some of you out there :)

historically I haven’t included contextual images as part of the writing but this picture feels necessary:

Broke and at the end of my rope in Austria in the summer of 2016 a very kind American I had met the week before allowed us to stay in his apartment for a few days. He took us to the brewpub where he worked, showed us the implements and the sacks of grain, we got drunk with his coworkers. The next day he took us to a small inlet beach in the center of the Danube and showed us where the locals swam in the river, we dunked our heads in again and again. And on our final night in town, he said he knew the best spot for busking, wouldn't it be helpful to earn a few extra euro? He loaned me his acoustic guitar and walked us to the canal where happy, sloshing folks with bellies full of grüner veltliner strolled in the luxurious late August air. We looked for a place to set down the open guitar case and paused in front of an enormous mural of Jesus' face, His crown of thorns refracted at massive scale - here is where I would sing.

I tried busking a few times in high school, targeting the higher-traffic areas of Laguna Beach, particularly the corner near the crepe shop where my buddy worked. And during one particularly debauched summer the cosmic country band I was driving around with would set up on the street and do acoustic, string-band versions of Green Day songs - this was a lucrative strategy during the Pride celebrations in Dolores Park, it was a less financially successful tactic during the chaos of July 4th weekend in Huntington Beach, although we did make it on to the local news, a little bit of color for the telecast. And in my first destitute months sleeping on people's floors in New York City I did supplement my telemarketer's income with the rattle of spare change in my banjo case, easily the most stomp-clap coded behavior I'll ever admit to. It's always thrilling when someone throws down a handful of change, the thud in the case heavy and encouraging, and when you're just starting out turning three hours of your free time into a handful of dollars feels like a better deal for your labor than most jobs. But you can't really tell the difference between appreciation and pity - is that kindly passerby throwing you a five truly moved by the words you're singing, the passion with which you strum? Or do they recognize a kind of desperation in you, one they wish to never feel themselves? And so in an effort to ward off whatever bad luck brought you to howling on the sidewalk they toss in an offering? Every contribution to the hat or the guitar case could be read either way: please keep going, your work is important or please, god, stop, give us some peace, save me from your fate.

The most interesting aspect of busking is the immediate, user-generated feedback, so different than the respectful applause you might expect at a more traditional show. If you play well and compellingly, you'll make more money. If you sing songs that people recognize or are appropriate for the setting, you'll make more money. If you nod appreciatively with every donation, folks will become more generous. And - unless you're particularly stubborn - inevitably you note those trends and adjust your behavior accordingly, until you are inarguably playing for the money.

I hadn't thought of my evening spent singing in front of Austrian Jesus in a long time, but the image of his face suddenly occurred to me in the middle of a song during the last week of shows. Following its reissue, I spent most of the tour playing songs from Youth Pastoral, my attempt to wrestle with the creator and being back in the songs reminded me of what it was like to live in His long shadow. Details of my ocean baptism and its subsequent fallout occurred to me for the first time in decades during my in-between-song banter. And after each of the shows I'd stand expectantly in the vicinity of the merch table angling for a sale, then I'd talk to someone from the venue about how much money we'd collected at the door. At times it didn't feel too dissimilar from trying to make meaningful eye contact on the bank of the canal, hoping for the reassuring plop of coin in the lining of the case. I was out here singing, was I playing for the money? Was I passing the collection plate?

I haven't tallied the numbers on it - and in fact I think I will allow myself the pleasure of not doing so - but if after gasses and meals I did make it into the black I'd be pretty surprised. Folks were very generous, local bands gave me their cut of the door despite my insistence that they keep it, much merch was purchased. But much like my limited experience busking, the take was never really that impressive. I've never had that much luck filling the coffers with coin.

But you and I both know that it's not about the money - making music in really any form is a very ineffective way to generate capital, and if I wanted to fill my wallet I would sign up for a code bootcamp and drop the various creative enterprises entirely. Even in those extremely broke days when an extra ten dollars could prevent me from having to eat sleep for dinner the money remained secondary. I struggle to both articulate and actually understand my motivations, though. What made this recent run of shows so deeply worth it? Was it spending four hours bullshitting in the park with my friends? Was it proving to myself that I could do such a thing? Was it the stranger who whispered beery and close in my ear - as a lover would - that he felt my songs saved his life?

But what about you? Do you have your guitar case flipped open? Are you just playing the songs that people want to hear? What is your most stomp-clap-coded behavior?