The Truce Hurts

Vlad appeared mysteriously out of nowhere tonight -- like the Impaler who bore his name -- and dropped a single in my case.

What am I supposed to do with this event? I thought we were at war! I coulda sworn he had been glowering at me from across the tracks every time we played against each other. I know I was. But then that dollar hit the grey bedding of my guitar case, and now all I can think about doing reciprocating by lobbing a dollar into his black gig bag the next time I see him playing. What's happened to me??? Have I gone soft? I mean, come on, who would I be without an El Douche-o type to balance me out? In short, as Tim Curry put it in Legend, "what is Light without Darkness?"

Well, I guess that's all over. And I suppose it's for the best. It's generally better to have allies than enemies in life, and the world of the subway performer is no exception. Plus, that was really nice of him. Hell, I even cleared out of my spot early today so I could let the tall, hairy keyboard player take over.

This abandonment of my station certainly had nothing to do with the fact that I made a record low in donations tonight. Nothing at all to do with it.

I'm playing a gig tonight! Waaa!

Hey, this is a little last minute, but I'm the musical guest for Talk Show with Bob Wiltfong tonight at the PIT at 8:00. I'd love for anyone who reads this crazy 'ole blog of mine to attend!

What: Me, doing some acoustic songs (including one new one), in a show that's hosted by Bob Wiltfong, who has starred in Chapelle's Show and the Daily Show. There will be some burlesque girls there too....click here for some more info about the show.

When: Tonight! April 19th. 8:00pm.

Where: The PIT (People's Improv Theater), 154 W. 29th St, between 7th and 6th avenues.

How much: Money? A mere $5, friend.

What a deal, eh? It's quite a show, and I'm thrilled to have been invited to be a part of it, so do come if you're able.

Thanks. That is all.

Crate, Just Crate

On Friday, whilst imparting the dulcet folk tones of "Blow Ye Winds" to the fine patrons of 23rd Street's famed 1 subway line, I was approached by a father and his young son, who kindly donated unto me a farthing, or something of that ilk.

The dad told me that it was "nice to hear somebody still plays great folk music." Then, like a guy who finds out that someone who reads his blog also went to school with his aunt, I totally spazzed out and got all into talking about sea shanties. Turns out we had both heard the song when we were younger and visiting Mystic Seaport (which, if you're up to date on the influences portion of my myspace profile, you'll be able to vouch for the truthfulness of my side of this claim)! Anyway, it was a great moment. Man, I sure do love folk music. And man, I don't yet understand why that doesn't make me super freaking popular.

Wanting to change things up a bit, I walked over to a (now) great Chelsea bodega before busking, and asked for a milk crate. The swell folks there forked over a great one, and so began my first evening of busking while sitting on my (now) polygon-etched duff. A strangely foreign concept for me, this busking-sitting thing. I know people do it all the time, but I never had a crate, so I never did it. Times are changing like lightning, friends. Soon enough I'll be glowering over you on a Times Square billboard. Probably because I got kicked out of my apartment and the Cup of Noodles billboard seemed like a warm place to be, what with its 24-hour stream of steam and all. But I'll still be there, damn it. Like that magician guy who hung in a ball or something above the street for a week. I never actually saw that, and I'm kinda glad I didn't; ever since he had to live in his own feces-filled goldfish bowl, I kinda feel like he might be a health hazard to all of mankind.

It's interesting how the crate changed up my dynamic; I almost exclusively did mellower, fingerpicking songs instead of my usual fervent lineup, and I also improvised a lot more with my guitar playing (chord substitutions) and harmonica yarping. That's a new word, don't tell anybody. It just sounds like what somebody does on a harmonica, right? Well, it's just gone into the public lexicon as of...me typing that, so if you're reading up on this blog later on and you have no clue what this jargon means...well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you were pretty far behind on catching the cool train. Maaaaybe you could say you've got a finger's hold of the caboose railing. Pumping frenetically on one of those seesaw pushcarts behind the cool train is really more like it.

And that, as Phil Ochs said, is all the news that's fit to sing.

Addendum

Thank you to the family who donated two mysterious Metrocards the other day. I shouldn't have doubted you. Turns out their combined value was 14 bucks.

After shooting a student film in seemingly subzero temperatures in New Hampshire this weekend, I was quite irked when I got back to NYC only to find that my monthly pass had expired. The aforementioned Metrocards came quite in handy. Thanks.

Now that I've got some creamy chicken ramen in me, I'm going busking. El douche-o is across the platform at 23rd Street and it's time to prove a point.

Me vs. the "Chelsea Blues Man" (douchebag)

It's common knowledge -- if you're a busker -- that if someone's playing in a station, you don't play on the platform across from them. Busking is a first-come, first-served kinda thing. Plus, it's about being fair to the other dude; if two buskers duke it out in the same station, neither of their individual musical talents will be distinguishable in the resulting melange. Come on, it's noisy enough down there already. Trains, bums, people inexplicably using payphones. If I had been ballsy enough to share stations with another busker, I would have successfully screwed both myself and the other guy every time I did it. Most buskers follow the Code and don't do this.

Enter El Douche-o, otherwise known as that electric guitarist who plays outside at 23rd and 7th every freaking day of the year. I admire him all right. He's pretty good, and stalwart at that. But for the love of God, how can an acoustic guitar possibly compete with a sweaty, overplayed Fender blastocaster and its veritable black hole of an amp? (Are black holes noisy?) Douchebag.

I'd been rockin' out in the station for about an hour, you know me, Mr. Cool, and all of a sudden I see this audacious freak across the tracks messing with his amp like he owns the joint. And not without reason! This guy gets write-ups in the local (Chelsea) papers all the time! "Bluesman of Chelsea!" "Clapton's less attractive, bummy counterpart!" "Douchebag that Rob now hates!" All these things are true. Well, the first one's the only one I have proof of, but the printers said they're getting back to me on my headline suggestions. Douchebag.

What started out as a sincerely exciting, lucrative set ended up as the most competitive situation I've been in since FOR-EVER. I raised my voice as loud as it could go, bursting countless capillaries; I banged away on Emmylou like she was Judas Iscariot, practically peeling planks away with my pick; I channeled hurricane-like gusts into my harmonica, releasing raping rains upon its reeds. Douchebag.

This succeeded in making me look crazy. It did not boot the douchebag from his spot. I for one think it did annoy him, though. After about an hour, he'd apparently fretted enough over the messy musique concrete we were creating, and hit the road. I ended up doing all right money-wise, though I should really just walk up to this dude next time I see him in "the Nook" and ask for a cut of his money. Douchebag.

On a less I'm-gonna-force-feed-someone-to-death note, my girlfriend recently got me a turntable -- something I've been without for (shudder) a year and a half. I flipped. Records were once my big thing...I've amoeba-ized a few collections here and there, and I've now got around 300 or so. I've acquired so many records since my busted Miracord was put into storage, and the day hasn't enough hours for me to go through all of them. This afternoon I was listening to Stephen Stills' first solo album and got hooked on "Love the One You're With," which meant I needed to learn it quick before I hit the station. I don't know if it's well-known, but I made a pretty penny off of playing it. Maybe it's just my insightful, inspired rendition. Anyway...thanks, Leslie.

A kid (10-12 years old, I reckon) ran up to me sometime after my turf war had resolved and tossed me a coin, and as usual I made sure to give him a, "hey, thanks, man." But when he turned around, he had a pony tail and was very obviously a girl. Sooooo, the moral of the story is, I suck.

Douchebag.

Me vs. "the Homeless," Pt. 9

Homeless sparring continues. I went out around 11 tonight, and encountered a crazy, drunken, lovelorn dood almost immediately. He was pretty well-spoken, and made frequent gestures to his cell phone, which led me to doubt whether he was actually destitute or not. Either way, he wouldn't shut up during my songs. Evidently his girlfriend had just dumped him (this guy had to be at least in his 40s), and he was coping with his grief by calling her voicemail and leaving her messages that basically consisted of me singing whatever song I was in the middle of, accompanied by his pointedly angry background vocals. I'm not sure if she got the messages, or if she even existed. But if she did, she's got the very first bootlegged live Rob Morrison performance in history.

This dood also served as my spokesman. In addition to applauding overzealously after each song, he petitioned passersby for money for me, going so far as to say, "God bless you," to those who donated.

It's not that I don't appreciate that. But as with the drunken gross woman from my last post, the presence of a dubious person so near to me tends to freak people out. I make less money. And I definitely don't appreciate that.

I was surprised he knew so many of the songs I played. After a while, I thought I'd shake him off by playing an original, instrumental piece. About thirty seconds in, he was quick to enlighten all of us that he was "sick of it." This catchphrase was repeated incessantly until my masochistic side yielded and I gave myself a break by playing some Neil Young.

This dood informed me that I'm lucky to be young; he got dumped because his girlfriend thinks he's getting too old. I think he might be overlooking the fact that he hangs out in subway stations suspiciously late. And doesn't wash his hands. And doesn't donate to kind buskers who inexplicably tolerate his antics in consideration of karma and in hopes that he'll prove he's not completely bankrupt and toss in a quarter. That didn't happen.

I'll close this post with the first interaction we had tonight:

Dood: (pointing to my harmonica yolk) That's a cool device.
Me: Yeah...thanks.
Dood: (reading my sign)...Rob...Morrison. Is that a real name?
Me: It's as--
Dood: Pssh, it's gotta --
Me: What?
Dood: .....
Me: Yeah, it's --
Dood: Rob. Morrison.
Me:....It's as real as they get.
Dood: Sounds like it. Not many people have real names.
Me: Hmmm. Well, not even Bob Dylan's name was real.
Dood: Yeah, but he was a jew.

Great.

Me vs. The Homeless, Part 8

I pity them as much as the next dude, I really do. Curled up in a subway station on a piece of cardboard, hoarding bizarre items, begging with the passersby for loose change or a scrap of food, watching while their bodies detiorate. It must be unbearable. So yes, I pity them. But when they get in my way, so help me, William Blake, my wrath doth descend like a plague of locusts.

There's a lady at the 23rd street station who barks drunken commands everyone including me, demanding, "give me that cigarette! I know you got it. Gimme." And "play more Bob Dylan. I like Bob Dylan. Bob. Dylan. Dylan. Bob. Bob Dylan." While I'm not impressed by her drinking habit, I can handle the Dylan stuff...if you read this blog enough, you know that I'm obsessed with the dood. But what I can't handle is that she insists on singing along from her perch on the benches nearby, and then demands more Dylan while I'm still playing one of his songs. It don't work like that, lady. It works like this: I'm going to punch you in the face.

It hasn't come to that yet. But man, is it close. She definitely deters people from giving me money...Her presence alone is unsettling, and she's got powerful psychological abilities, too. I think they see her slobbering all over herself and begin to think that I'm not much different. We're both hanging out in a subway station for inordinate amounts of time, hoping for money, right? I'd like to think that the difference is I'm providing some kinda service, while also not drinking liquor out of a plastic bag with a crazy straw.

Last night I snuck out to get in a quick session at 23rd, and was about to go through the turnstiles when I saw the matted hair and lumpy face of my foe, squished up against the armrest of a bench, probably dreaming about a pack of cigarettes singing "Blowin' in the Wind" in harmony. Like a lost woodsman stumbling upon a slumbering bear, I crept quietly out of the uptown side of the station, crossed the street, and descended into the downtown half. "She'll never be able to get to me over here," I snickered.

Well, it's true that she couldn't physically reach me, but her voice could. As soon as I started playing, she was roused from her drunken stupor, and began hollering unintelligible comments at me from across the tracks. Not the worst thing in the world, as there was pretty much nobody around (it was after midnight), so I didn't exactly lose any money. But I also didn't make any.

Whatever. Her days are probably numbered with or without my inevitably unrealized malice. Oh, and lady? For the record, Bob Dylan covered "Mr. Bojangles" live many times, so shaddup already.