This message, hastily scribbled on a scap of parchment and delivered to my brownstone moments ago by a satchel-toting Nike of a lad, appears to be the latest of Mr Morrison's correspondences from the front. If you fancy yourself bold enough to scan these jots and floats of brainnotes, I shall by all means curtail every impulse to beg you to consider the consequences of such devious actions (not to mention the significant difficulty in trying to chew food despite the holes hewn through one's mandible by the namesake weapon of the laserbats) – in short, read away:
My friends.
Allow me to declare that which most of you have wished for many a moon: war upon Music Under New York, (or MUNY). For the few of you who aren't familiar with this insidious organization, allow me to explain. MUNY is an organization for which one must audition which purports to foster musical performance and appreciation in the New York subways. Once admitted, performers (for they can hardly be called buskers, as you will soon see) are given a banner to hang up behind them which emblazons their skills and origins (mine, for example, would read: "Rob Morrison, folk singer, guitarist and harmonica player. Mortal enemy of MUNY.") and a schedule that depicts specific times and places when and where a performer shall perform.
Okay, fair enough, you say. No, not quite, say I. These fine philistines can boot out any other busker from their pitch if said busker isn't fortunate enough to (or isn't wont to sell out) possess the sacred MUNY banner.
It's my opinion that to have a schedule, not to mention the "authority" to forcibly remove others in order to strictly adhere to this schedule, strikes me as extremely antithetical to the basic idea of busking. In my warpedly idealistic mind, busking is about performing music that is important to the busker, in a manner that makes it easily affordable to an audience, not to mention displaying a "DIY" aesthetic, through which music should be music, performance performance, and most importantly, performer performer. In other words, setting up organizations that dole out performance times for their members is a ridiculous, because these locations are not to be booked as if they were concert venues; they are subway stations. Not only that, but having to go through a booking company immediately begins to zap away the special aspects inherent in busking. Perhaps I am misguided: perhaps there are underground coalitions through which homeless persons schedule windows of time for appearances in desirable locations throughout Manhattan. But I suspect that this sort of organization does not exist, and if it did, an audition/interview process would certainly be required so as to sort through applicants and select the most respectable lot to be set up as members. Obviously, this goes against most commonly established notions of what it means to be homeless: if there are such institutions that would prove so organized and so thoroughly resigned to helping their homeless clients earn money, shouldn't such an institution simply become a shelter or a mission? That would provide true help.
The analogy is, of course, somewhat incongruent. Buskers, most of them anyway, do not typically require help in the form of bookings or money (though many find both in the subways). Nonetheless, MUNY seems expressly aimed at supplying both of these to their musicians.
In the past few months, I've had plenty of encounters with MUNY folks, most of them ending with my exit from the desired pitch. I can't say that this has exactly changed recently, although my last run-in was my most ballsy by far.
About a week ago, I arrived at the 59th St Station around 6:15 pm and set up as rapidly as I could. I hadn't even made it through my first song before my peripheral vision picked up a duo of asian musicians setting up behind me. It wasn't long before I caught a glimpse of the familiar gold and black MUNY banner. After a brief flicker of a temptation to pack up, I firmly resolved to completely ignore them and continue playing. One of the members of the duo walked up to me, and I avoided eye contact and persisted in strumming out any opportunity for him to engage in conversation, quickly going into my next song and my next song after that, not allowing any breaks in between. He ultimately came right up to me and asked me to go away, brandishing his schedule of righteousness as proof of his entitlement.
I wasn't satisfied, and blurted out frankly, "Look, buddy, anyone can perform here. That (the schedule) doesn't mean anything to me. If I don't do this, I'm not going to eat tonight, and since I was here first, you'd better find somewhere else."
The starvation claim was definitely an embellishment. But my feelings were sincere, and a good 20% of my income is derived from busking. He seemed rather flummoxed, and conferred with his duo member before then shuffling off to further confer with the police. Obviously, my protest had reached the pinnacle of its effectiveness (I doubt the police would have appreciated my points), and I scurried off amidst a fog of my own expletives.
Rest assured, my friends: this war has only just begun.
Rob Morrison
Well, Morrisonites, I daresay that this note hardly makes sense to most of you. Nevertheless, Mr Morrison seems to find some import in these matters, and will, I am sure, be greatly moved by your taking such matters to heart.
Godspeed.
Archaeopteryx T.C. Bustard
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