You've seen me somewhere, right?
Everyone tells me that, but they can't remember where. Well, think back to your last drunken haze when you were on your way into town. You stopped off at the cash machine on Rodney St, right? And there was some guy singing and playing guitar for the folks in the quewe? Well yes, that was me. It's my job, OK? I've done it all over the world.

Maybe you had a bit of a dance, and asked me for a request. Hopefuly you chucked me a couple of quid. You might even have filmed me on your camera. Sorry, but I probably wouldn't recognise you. I see hundreds of people throughout the night, and I'm getting used at nodding at strangers who acknowledge me the next day. A smile and a wink is all part of this busker's service. Don't think I don't mean it, but it's as automatic as breathing, and it helps bring the money in.

Lots of people see me and make a specific assumption. A couple of weeks ago someone expressed it in classic style. I'd just finished playing 'Brown Eyed Girl' for the third time that night, and some half-cut gimp wanders over to me and says:

"So, do you sleep rough?"

"No..." I deadpan "why would I sleep rough?"

"Oh, I thought you were a homeless"

(A HOMELESS!!)

"No, I'm not a homeless"

"Oh, you're just a..."

"A musician, yes."

For some reason, people assume that anyone playing an instrument in the street
(without a stage, lights and all the trappings of showbiz) must be desperate
for booze, drugs or a roof over their head.
Why would anyone suffer the indignity, the risk and the weather for the
sake of a few coppers over the course of a night?

Firstly, dignity doesn't come into it. I see more human degradation in the course of a night than I can usually stomach.
It is risky yes, but I'm free, and I don't have to work until ten at night if I dont want to.
And since I'm quite good at it, the hourly rate pisses on all the 'proper' jobs I've had, from a great height.

By the way, I know I look like a junkie (not 'smack-head' please, I hate that word, or 'bag-head', even worse), but when I'm out there, I'm working for the the bare neccesities of life - rent, porn, and chocolate muffins.

I first went busking at the age of 14. Spent a night outside the Crucible theatre in Sheffield. Made about seven quid. Got a fiver from a wierd, pissed old bloke who came out from the bar.
Since then busking's saved me from both the call centre and the job centre.

Life on the street seems beautiful when the weather's good. In 2003 I teamed up with
an Israeli soulstress called Gali. We were in Barcelona for 5 weeks, working barefoot in Placa Catalunya. We'd count our earnings on the hot stone flags, buy falafels and swap dirty jokes.
Liverpool's a nasty contrast when its spitting train on a dead Thursday night, the ugly beggar's on your pitch, you feel self-conscious and you don't want to be looked at.

Daytime busking isn't worth it - £5/hour. You have to get out with the pissheads at night where the wild things are and the diamonds and the luvlies.

Yes, I've been mugged, but I've also recieved drugs, hugs, fags and shags for my efforts. I've had spontaneous jam sessions with harmonica players, beatboxers, rappers and dancers.

Sometimes you'll hit a peak where you're singing the best your ever did, but no one drops a penny. Then you stop to tune up and someone hands you a tenner.

And you meet the best people in the world. People who's opinion of me I would actually care about. To them, I mention that I do gigs, I have a band, I'd rather be playing my own songs. But why should I bother? There's no shame in this.

I'll take all the validation I need from one punter : Just two weeks ago, a guy leaned across from the quewe and said "Hey man, you're the spice that makes the city live"