I swore off Alberta for a while after the last show there and especially my last show at this spot. So I guess it’s been “a while” because I was back again tonight.

I realized as I was heading out that I wouldn’t have a lot of time to play, because I had someplace to be at 9pm*. I debated not going out at all, but a short show is better than no show…right? So I set up at the old familiar place just before 8pm, and set an alarm for 8:30pm on my phone.

At a recent private engagement I thought I played too fast and kind of ran out of gas a little early. So tonight I focused on songs that are harder to play, and tried to regulate my tempo. It felt like I did a better job keeping my stamina, although that may be due to the temperature’s being 20 degrees cooler than my last outing, rather than keeping my tempo in check.

I was never successful in getting anyone to sit down on the benches. Well, except one young lady who sat for a second and tried to encourage her friends to join her. However, her friends wanted to go get dinner and bring it back. “How long will you be here?” asked her friend. I told him half an hour, and he said, “Perfect.”

The thought crossed my mind that “Perfect” might mean “You’ll be gone before we get back.” And indeed, they never returned.

I left at the appointed time, just after playing a new song. I made it to the 9pm event with 10 minutes to spare.

* – A screening of my friend’s documentary at a nearby bar.

Some random circumstances put me in the neighborhood of Colonel Summers Park in the early evening of this fine Saturday and I decided I should try to play a show. And after a fairly successful outing at the park in Sellwood erased the memories of a prior less successful park outing, I was ready to push my luck at another park.

When I got to this spot, there was a couple canoodling on the bench you can see in the picture below, and I asked if they’d mind if I played some music. They were all for it, and so I had the pleasure of playing to an audience straight away.

But nothing lasts forever, and they bid farewell after maybe half an hour. In the meantime, a man took up a spot just to my right. He was really into the songs, and from the looks of it, he was also well into his cups.

His phone rang a couple of times while I played, and although I thought it would be polite to pause while he took a call, he urged me to play for his friends over the phone. I think he might even have been calling people for me to play to.

But I can’t complain, because each phone listener doubled my audience size. A one-man band can be a fine thing, I think, but a one-man audience? Get out your phone! (This actually gives me an idea of how to handle my next experience—for I know it’s coming—playing to no one.)

I was close enough to the sidewalk outside the park to see a lot of people walk by without pausing. A number of people walking through the park also just walked on by without stopping. So it was kind of flattering to see a woman interrupt her brisk walk through the park to listen to two songs and applaud after each of them. It’s even possible she was sober!

As I could feel things winding down, a rough looking guy some distance off shouted to me, “Can I play your guitar?” I shouted back, “No!” but decided I should leave before he decided not to take no for an answer.

From the start it didn’t seem like I’d picked a great spot to play, but my first impression was wrong. I never played to very many people at one time, but overall the people who lingered enjoyed the show very much. In the end, it was a rather gratifying experience, and I look forward to my next opportunity to play music in a park.

This one actually started out as a “private” show (albeit in a public park) for some visiting friends, and I wasn’t going to note anything here. But after I started playing, a half dozen youths from the park came over and sat on a log to listen for a while.

While they were situating themselves, a city parks employee drove up. I worried he was going to tell me to knock it off. He was only driving by, though, and he smiled as his head was bobbing along to the music. This was a nice contrast to the jogger who ran by with the “Who farted?” face.

But my very favorite moment was when one of the young men came over to tell me, “You’re doing great!” Yep, sounds like a show to me.

(Walk this way.)

My previous outing wasn’t the greatest, so I was looking to mix it up a bit. I loaded the gear into my car and drove to a nice little restaurant on Mississippi Ave. for a pre-show meal. I wasn’t sure where I’d end up, but there’s a spot on Alberta near the Radio Room that looks promising.

It was blazing hot, though, so I knew I’d have to wait until at least 8pm before trying to play music out on the street. As I was eating alone (not a pre-show ritual or anything, just Señora Demasiado was out of town) I finished a little early, about 7:45pm, so I just wandered around the neighborhood a little.

The sidewalks were pretty crowded, and I began to wonder about playing music right around here. It’s tough, though, because the sidewalk is pretty narrow on Mississippi; I couldn’t just set up any old place. Also, a lot of the ground floor businesses, although closed for the day, have tenants living upstairs, and I don’t want to bother anyone in their own residence.

Then I noticed the light bulb shop (Sunlan Lighting). It’s kind of famous for being cramped, the quippy woman behind the counter who rings up your purchase, and the Lego exhibits in the window. They were closed for the day, and it looks like the place upstairs is just their storage, i.e., no apartments. Perfect.

I set out my benches on the sidewalk, shaded from the setting sun by the clothing drop box, and got my kit together. A couple of songs in, a couple of friends I alerted actually showed up(!) and one even brought a third person. That’s already more audience than I’m used to (on average) so I was well ahead of the game when other people started to hang around.

A crowd of spectators kind of feeds on itself, and I generally had a half-dozen people at any time watching for the next hour. I think I was playing pretty well, and in spite of the heat I was putting on a good, sweaty show. My spot was obscured a little from Mississippi pedestrians until they were right on the corner, and I noticed a couple of times people expressing surprise that it was just one person making all this sound.

And suddenly all eyes were off me. A weird motorcycle-car collision happened, where a motorcycle apparently surged forward and crashed into a car. The motorcycle seemed to get the worst of it, though, and sparks flew. I refrained from playing while the rider’s condition was uncertain, but he got up and pushed his bike to the side of the street and a few minutes later I slowly resumed.

Some of my favorite moments of the evening: the man who made a U-turn on his bike and came back to listen; the number of people who were brave enough to sit on one of my benches–it’s oddly difficult getting people to sit down, hot weather or not; and an old friend indulgently tolerating my near butchering of one of his favorite songs, which I hardly play and really should have brushed up on before inflicting on an unsuspecting sidewalk.

But my absolute favorite moment was seeing a police car roll up, lights flashing. This may seem weird, especially after my previous encounter with Portland’s finest. But this time, the police were here to deal with the motorcycle-car crash aftermath. And as a long-time street musician often accused of “disturbing the peace,” I have to tell you, there’s not any much better feeling than seeing the police arrive to deal with someone else!

Well, I’m not one to push my luck. I played a few more songs as dusk settled in, and packed up. Then I had a beer with a couple of buddies, and headed home for the night. Mississippi…and Succeeding!

This was kind of a quick spur of the moment show. I’d had a pretty busy week, and was feeling a little tired–especially my legs–so I was curious if I had the stamina to put on a 30 minute show after all that.

I got to the old familiar spot around 8pm, and realized it had been nearly a month since my last show. This dawned on me when I realized I’d forgotten my old buddies, the benches, and suggested I’d either had a worse week than I thought, or I was just a bit out of practice with the whole street performing thing.

Well, I’ve played a lot of shows without benches, too, so this wasn’t going to stop me. I began playing and everything felt okay. On a warm Portland evening in the Alberta District, there were plenty of pedestrians passing by. It was a pretty typical mix of people: couples on dates walking by me on the far side of the sidewalk; small nuclear families letting Junior take a gander as they push his stroller past; groups of teens with a couple of people (sarcastically?) dancing as they go by; iPodders who already have their music, thank you very much; sly video-snappers who walk past without even making eye contact, as they stare at their phone making sure the shot is framed; and the poor unfortunates trying to eat vegan Mexican food at the restaurant across the street.

It’s easy to think you’re wasting your time playing music for strangers because you often get so little feedback. I don’t recall any kind of applause, but I did get a few encouraging smiles, as if to say, “Keep at it…maybe you’ll get better.” So I kept at it about 45 minutes, and called it a night.

I wasn’t in the greatest mood by the end. There’s this thing people do where they walk past, then stop to watch just out of the corner of my eye, while I’d much prefer someone to stand closer and be more like an audience, not so much like a spy sneaking a peek from behind a mailbox (it’s happened). There was also a bit of PWI (photography without interaction) which is a breach of etiquette between spectator and street performer; I’m not looking for money or even applause, but you can at least say something. (Like, maybe ask if it’s okay to photograph?)

I wasn’t in the greatest mood even after a musician (or at least a guy carrying a guitar) stopped for a minute and gave me a thumbs-up, although I did feel a little better. And a nice young man did actually stop during my last song, and he asked about my drum kit, and if I’d made it. I told him no, I didn’t and while this didn’t seem to bother him, I was feeling insecure, like he was re-evaluating what he’d watched and I was coming up short. So I added, “I didn’t make the guitar, either.” I was trying to refute a point he wasn’t even making, trying to prove that it’s not who built the drums, it’s who plays them that matters in the moment. It was awkward, and it made me feel worse than anything else that happened night.

So if you read this, kind young man: I’m sorry for my snippiness. To answer your question more properly, no, I did mot make my own drum kit. I bought it from a fine craftsman who makes folk instruments for a living. Please check out the Farmer Foot Drums website for more information. Or see my FAQ.

I’m going to cool it on Alberta and 21s for a while. Seems like we’re not too sweet on each other lately.

The annual St. Johns Parade is a time of great excitement in this otherwise sleepy neighborhood. Several people have urged me to play somewhere in St. Johns on other days because “nothing much ever happens here.”

And I have to say, when I got to this plaza, it was warm but not terribly hot, yet the people scattered around seemed a bit listless. Some people waited for a bus, and it seemed like there was a couple of vacationing families adjusting to the reality of how far it was from their “hotel in Portland” to Powell’s and Voodoo Doughnuts. So yeah, nothing much was going on.

I found a spot on N. Philadelphia Ave. and set up. I didn’t want to be too intrusive, but most of the people within earshot were listening to something on their phones and probably wouldn’t hear me anyway. I put out the benches and started my first song.

If I had to describe the response I got, it was mainly confusion about why anyone would be doing this in St. Johns on a day when the only people around are waiting for a bus or puzzling over how distant their “hotel in Portland” is from Powell’s and Voodoo doughnuts. My benches are usually good for attracting at least a tired pedestrian or two to sit for a few minutes, but on this day, nothing doing.

A couple of people sitting against a distant wall watched a few songs, but took the occasion of my inviting them to sit on these comfy benches as their cue to leave. And it wasn’t like anyone took their place. It was mostly pretty desolate; people walked within a few hundred feet of me, but almost no one tried to get any closer.

Over the next forty-five minutes, a few different people did walk up to ask the same question: “How long have you been doing this?” Meaning, how long have I been playing as a one man band? I felt like they were either gauging how long it would take them to become adept compared to how far I’ve gotten in a couple of years; or gauging how long I’ve had this particular mania.

One person did tell me I had a nice voice. This means no matter how surprised anyone watching might have been to see someone playing music in St. Johns, I was still the most surprised of all.

I treated this as a kind of public practice session, running through some new songs and some trickier older songs. After about 45 minutes I packed up and headed to the St. Johns Beer Porch. The outing became a pleasant memory, punctuated by a delicious falafel sandwich and a cold beer.

Trying to branch out a bit, I took the advice I’ve heard from several people who have asked, “Why don’t you try playing in a park?” So I headed to Irving City Park, near the tennis courts, and started playing a show that would be witnessed by few but culminate in police involvement.

Although it was a pretty warm day, the park was shady and cool. I set out the ol’ benches and started playing. Those benches have had a lot of private shows performed for them.

I was expecting some friends, so I tried to pace myself. Some travelled from as far as New York City, while others walked just a few blocks, but still: wouldn’t want anyone to waste a trip if they expected to see me play.

I started playing at about 6pm, and my friends didn’t make it until about 6:45, but in the meantime I had a couple come by and take in a few songs while they polished off a large bottle of beer together. Sweet. There was also the older couple walking laps around the park; at one point they apologized for having no wallet from which to draw a tip, but I was already flattered that they didn’t change their course after the first lap.

Since one of my friends had played drums in a multi-person band I sometimes play in, it was a treat to let him see my one-man band arrangements for some songs we used to play together. I also got to show him a few new songs, and a good time was had by all.

Or rather, by some. It seems a person across the street from the park was not so keen on the sounds of El Demasiado. And while I do enjoy playing music out in public, I never ever want to play for someone who would rather not hear it. If you’re walking down the sidewalk, I think you can withstand a few seconds of my sound, but I would never play near you if you’re in a place you can’t move from. I know my music isn’t for everyone, so just give the word, and I’ve played my last song on that spot.

So if that person across the street had come over and asked me to stop, it would have been lights out, show’s over, no reason necessary. But alas, that person, whoever it was, chose instead to have the police department do his complaining for him. And so it was, just as I played my last song, a police cruiser rolled up onto the grass and a heavily armed officer walked over to tell me I needed to stop. I told him I was already done, and that was that. He got back into the cruiser and backed out into the street.

I suppose it’s possible the anonymous complainer was intimidated by the prospect of confronting so imposing a person as a street musician. But I am just standing there with my legs bound to a drum set on my back and a guitar across my chest. Even if I do turn violent and make a sudden move toward a critic, I’m pretty much just going to fall over. Still, better safe than sorry. Stand behind that thin blue line. If this isn’t what the police are for, then what on earth are they for?

I’m truly sad the anonymous complainer lacked the courage to personally express his feelings to me. I guess he only wanted his opinion expressed, but didn’t want to be responsible for having it. It’s kind of lame, but if you’re out there, anonymous complainer in the vicinity of NE Cook St. and 7th Ave., don’t worry: I won’t be back.

Yet another return. Again.

But it’s already been nearly 3 months since I was on this part of Alberta, and there’s something I was curious about: would the new benches go over as well here as they had on Russell or Alberta and 29th?

So I set up the benches in the early evening, and commenced to playing. It was kind of a late start, but there was about an hour of daylight remaining and I felt like I had just about enough energy to play that long.

The benches weren’t quite the boon I hoped for, but a few people sat down and hung out for a while. A couple of people sat and took in a song while their friends scouted the neighborhood for a…cab? Missing person? Later on a family of three sat down, and while the parents seemed reasonably interested in my song, their 8-year-old son was much more focused on a cup of ice cream.

Well, on a warmish spring day, I’d be crazy to think my act was any competition for ice cream. I always enjoy playing on this corner, but I’m not sure I’ll be back here soon. Unless it’s to get some ice cream of my own.