Busking in the Metro

The metro always fascinated me. That great labryrinth of tunnels that transported the population of Paris here and there to their various destinations. Standing on the platform there would be a momentary silence where the tunnel would reveal its empty darkness. Then in the distance a rumbling sound could be heard which became louder and louder and suddenly like an angry serpent, the train would hurtle its way into the platform, its beaming lights shining ferociously, the sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rumbling of the carriages, followed by the screeching of the brakes as it slowly ground to a halt. The eerie noise of the claxon as the carriages are ready to open. With one flick of the handle the doors pull aside and out spewed the crowds onto the platform while those waiting to get on waiting patiently until the last person had alighted.

There were any amount of metro stations that a busker could perform in. Yet they varied in their capacity to provide a reasonable income. I soon got to know which were the more lucrative pitches. There was Le Chatelet des Halles which was a central point that joined a whole myriad of different lines from Porte de Clignacourt in the north to Porte d’Orleons in the south. During the mid seventies the metro had expanded out to the RER lines supplying the growing banlieux or outer suburbs that were growing incessantly on the outskirts of Paris. This provided a system of different contrasts of the old and the new. On the one hand there were the sleek new trains of the RER, the more established trains of the metro and a couple of lines which still had to upgrade their carriages resulting in a vestige from the past where some of the trains were so old they still retained their wooden seats and their old world charms to boot.

There were all sorts of people who frequented the echoing caverns of the metro plying their trade as buskers. There were the individual buskers who usually accompanied themselves on guitar to groups of musicians who filled the metro corridors with their booming music and voices. On top of that there also mime artists, jugglers and other types of performers.

I eventually found a metro that was both lucrative and not used much by other buskers, L’Etoile, a metro just below the Arc de Triomphe. Here many wealthy tourists passed by and were often generous in their donations. Sometimes a fifty franc note which was equivalent to £5 would be thrown into my guitar case. On the whole, people would usually throw whatever loose change they had, everything from 20 centimes to a franc.

Given the acoustics of the corridors in the metro, a good echoing sound could be made which could easily rise above the endless noise of passengers passing through. I had a wide ranging repertoire of songs, everything from Simon and Garfunkel’s The Boxer, America, Bridge over Troubled Water, Donavan’s Hurdy Gurdy Man, Leonard Cohen’s So Long Marianne and Susanne, Bob Dylan’s the Times they are a Changing, Knocking on Heaven’s Door and All Along the Watch Tower. Most songs would  be accompanied on the harmonica, held on a metal harmonica holder slung around my neck.

Usually I would play on my own, but because L’Etoile was close to Benedicte’s office, she would often come down during her lunch break and we would do a number of tunes with each other, usually of our own songs. Somehow we exuded a special sound together. And often as not, people passing through would stay awhile and listen and even sometimes applaud, an experience I never have had when I played solo.

The pitch was used by a small group of buskers all of whom abided by an unwritten code of conduct that if anyone arrived when someone else was playing at the time, they would let them know what time they would be finished so the other busker could then take over.

A number of my fellow buskers used to meet up at Le café Mazet at Rue St Honore des Arts, a little side street just off the Boulevard St. Michel. There we would swap songs, tell stories and talk about where we came from because we were quite an international group.

Even in Etoile itself, there was a strong sense of camaraderie among that small select group who busked in that place. There was Michel who came from a village near Rouen. He played the piano accordion with such aplomb and dexterity, the notes were almost dancing off the metro walls. Someone said he had a promising musical career back home and had played the organ at Rouen Cathedral but decided to throw it all away and move to Paris to play in the metro.

There was Charlie who came from Huddersfield in Yorkshire. He must have been in his early 40’s and was therefore a good deal older than the rest of us. He had a gruff and down to earth way about him and was never afraid to speak his mind. His speciality was mime where he played a cassette recorder at his feet and mimed to it as if he was a puppet with invisible strings. He was both comical and ridiculous both at the same time. His movements were never quite in sync with the music yet he had some peculiar quality that endeared people to stop and watch him, especially children. They must have been fascinated by this extraordinary person dressed up as a clown.

Then there was John who originally came from Canada and somehow drifted through Europe and became a busker in Paris. He was a friendly soul and he had an infectious laugh that permeated everyone who was in his company in a way that everyone ended up laughing, often not knowing what they were laughing about nor cared. Yet the guy hadn’t a note in his head. He would set up his pitch and the moment of his first song it became a battle between the original chord of his guitar and the song that he sang which were at least an octave in difference. None of us had the heart to say to him that he lacked any musical ability. Who were we to pass judgement? He had every right to be there just like the rest of us.

There were many sides of Paris I was to get to know. On the one hand, the tourist aspect of the city as false and as hollow as the plastic artefacts being sold by the street traders. But there was another side which could be found by exploring deep within the heart and soul of its surroundings embedded in its ordinary people, in its nooks and crannies, and hidden corners. This could not be described in some guide book. It could only be found in the way that the buildings spoke to me, by embracing their sombre silence and taking in the magic of the atmosphere which would strengthen in its tone the more I came back there.

It was as if there were layers of the city that unwrapped for me each time I returned, a new perspective, a new energy and the excitement of this was that those layers seemed to be endless. Another one would reveal itself at my next visit. Each time I revisited the city, a new door would open and I would push it eagerly and inquisitively to gain a fresh sense of what this place entailed for me.

 

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