Another excerpt from "A Place Called Mayfield"...
“Give Me Money, I Need Beer”
In this time that we live in, no matter where you may end up in this world, whether it is a backwoods town or a nation’s capitol, you are likely to see beggars, the homeless or the downtrodden. Maybe circumstances beyond their control have carved them into that situation, maybe it is in truth no fault but their own. Whatever it may be that lead them to this, my opinions of the street person have become somewhat stereotyped. My mind only registers two categories; the first group is basically lazy. Often seen sitting silently, holding a barely legible artline-scrawled sign. “Hungry. Need food.” “Poor. Need money.” Thoughts only they will ever claim to understand tormenting them. The will to even stand or speak seemingly leeched from their system.
Admittedly, there is a substantially grey area between the first category and the soon to be explained second.
The second group, are the ones who make some attempt to earn their money as best they can. Some sell cigarette lighters, others sell bric-a-brac thrown out by somebody else and there are some who busk. Quite literally sing for their supper, or flagon. Think of it this way, you’re driving on a freeway and see a hitchhiker sitting on the side of the road with his thumb stuck out, alternatively you’re driving that same stretch of freeway and see a hitchhiker already walking his way to his destination whilst thumbing for a ride. Who would you be more inclined to pick-up, the person making an effort or the person making none? Sometimes when you walk or drive past someone down on their luck you might attempt to pretend they’re just not there, other times you can’t help but notice.
The somewhat beshevled older fellow sat waiting at the corner of the Woolworth’s car park at the intersection of Valencia Street and Maitland Road, not to cross the road, just waiting. His islander dark skin was covered by his faded red Hawaiian shirt, little grass-skirted girls dancing across the front. The sun was kept from his face with a blue terry-toweling hat. Slung over his chest, he strummed at the battered four-out-of-six nylon string acoustic, held in place by a frayed piece of rope masquerading as a guitar-strap. Whenever a passer by happened to throw a glance in his general direction, he would swing into action and begin to wildly strum out some abstract semi-flamenco sounding instrumental every so often muttering something that couldn’t quite be understood but vaguely sounded like the English language. When the attention of the onlooker was lost, he would sit back down on his old black and white beach towel directly in front of the traffic light control box.
For weeks this fellow played up and down the length of Maitland Road, in front of the Woolworths, in front of the Home Hardware, just about in every building eave there was. In some peculiar way it was almost like a touring band, a date at this venue, a date at that venue. The shoppers his groupies, if only for a moment, consider it a guaranteed audience. Ask any Muso, a gig is still a gig no matter how small the venue. Imagine the bill poster, “Solo guitarist, now appearing in front of the Optometrist, one show only. Appearing on the 16th at the Pawn-Shop”
Walking to the bakery I see him making a come-back appearance sitting on his beach towel in front of the TAB. Thinking I might toss him the change from my loaf of bread, as I came closer I could hear him singing a rendition of Amazing Grace, to nobody at all other than himself. It actually sounded like music, but as he notices my approach the performance switch flicked on. He doesn’t play any interpretive flamenco or any tradition hymns. Instead, beginning to strum and alternating between two two-fingered chords, he begins to sing in an again surprisingly tuneful voice, “Give Me Money, I Need Beer.” Not surprisingly, the entire song was the same lyrics being sung over and over and over.
At first I thought I misheard, but no. I couldn’t help but to tell several of my close friends at the time this story (myself and the three friends I shared this story with played in a covers band) one of which suggested we do our very own cover version of “Give Me Money, I Need Beer” and do a tour of the venues along Maitland Road in homage.
In this time that we live in, no matter where you may end up in this world, whether it is a backwoods town or a nation’s capitol, you are likely to see beggars, the homeless or the downtrodden. Maybe circumstances beyond their control have carved them into that situation, maybe it is in truth no fault but their own. Whatever it may be that lead them to this, my opinions of the street person have become somewhat stereotyped. My mind only registers two categories; the first group is basically lazy. Often seen sitting silently, holding a barely legible artline-scrawled sign. “Hungry. Need food.” “Poor. Need money.” Thoughts only they will ever claim to understand tormenting them. The will to even stand or speak seemingly leeched from their system.
Admittedly, there is a substantially grey area between the first category and the soon to be explained second.
The second group, are the ones who make some attempt to earn their money as best they can. Some sell cigarette lighters, others sell bric-a-brac thrown out by somebody else and there are some who busk. Quite literally sing for their supper, or flagon. Think of it this way, you’re driving on a freeway and see a hitchhiker sitting on the side of the road with his thumb stuck out, alternatively you’re driving that same stretch of freeway and see a hitchhiker already walking his way to his destination whilst thumbing for a ride. Who would you be more inclined to pick-up, the person making an effort or the person making none? Sometimes when you walk or drive past someone down on their luck you might attempt to pretend they’re just not there, other times you can’t help but notice.
The somewhat beshevled older fellow sat waiting at the corner of the Woolworth’s car park at the intersection of Valencia Street and Maitland Road, not to cross the road, just waiting. His islander dark skin was covered by his faded red Hawaiian shirt, little grass-skirted girls dancing across the front. The sun was kept from his face with a blue terry-toweling hat. Slung over his chest, he strummed at the battered four-out-of-six nylon string acoustic, held in place by a frayed piece of rope masquerading as a guitar-strap. Whenever a passer by happened to throw a glance in his general direction, he would swing into action and begin to wildly strum out some abstract semi-flamenco sounding instrumental every so often muttering something that couldn’t quite be understood but vaguely sounded like the English language. When the attention of the onlooker was lost, he would sit back down on his old black and white beach towel directly in front of the traffic light control box.
For weeks this fellow played up and down the length of Maitland Road, in front of the Woolworths, in front of the Home Hardware, just about in every building eave there was. In some peculiar way it was almost like a touring band, a date at this venue, a date at that venue. The shoppers his groupies, if only for a moment, consider it a guaranteed audience. Ask any Muso, a gig is still a gig no matter how small the venue. Imagine the bill poster, “Solo guitarist, now appearing in front of the Optometrist, one show only. Appearing on the 16th at the Pawn-Shop”
Walking to the bakery I see him making a come-back appearance sitting on his beach towel in front of the TAB. Thinking I might toss him the change from my loaf of bread, as I came closer I could hear him singing a rendition of Amazing Grace, to nobody at all other than himself. It actually sounded like music, but as he notices my approach the performance switch flicked on. He doesn’t play any interpretive flamenco or any tradition hymns. Instead, beginning to strum and alternating between two two-fingered chords, he begins to sing in an again surprisingly tuneful voice, “Give Me Money, I Need Beer.” Not surprisingly, the entire song was the same lyrics being sung over and over and over.
At first I thought I misheard, but no. I couldn’t help but to tell several of my close friends at the time this story (myself and the three friends I shared this story with played in a covers band) one of which suggested we do our very own cover version of “Give Me Money, I Need Beer” and do a tour of the venues along Maitland Road in homage.
posted by Jimi at 7:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home