The Godfather: Peter Corris on beggars and buskers

Tags: Newtown/ the Italian Bowl

Walking on either side of King Street, Newtown, say from Missenden Road to the railway station, it’s a rare day that you don’t encounter a beggar or a busker or both. They are a feature that helps to give the precinct its character.

Their variety is considerable – male and female, Indigenous and not, talented and talentless. Most beggars employ paper cups, most buskers caps or hats, salted with a few coins to induce sympathy.

One of the interesting aspects of their presence is the change in personnel. After a few weeks you begin to notice that this one or that – the Aboriginal with the crippled hand, the blues player so good you’re sure he’s a session man earning a few extra bucks – has disappeared, sometimes never to return. You can’t help wondering why and where they’ve gone.

Some beggars display roughly printed signs accounting for their plight – their homelessness, their illnesses. Some look at you expectantly, some keep their eyes lowered, a picture of resignation. None of them are aggressive. I like to think that at one time or another most people ‘spare some change’. One beggar has an unusual technique. His initial approach is a mumbled request but, after he gets some money, his next statement is clear enough – ‘Could you spare a bit more?’

Of course it’s a hit and miss business. There are times when I simply don’t have any coins in my pocket and a muttered ‘Sorry, mate’ is the best I can do. I admit to being selective – I respond less well to the young and obviously able-bodied, although I realise some may have sad stories. When my contribution produces a ‘Bless you’ I’m less likely to give next time.

Strong in my memory are a couple of buskers. One, a young woman almost in mime makeup and Left-Bank clothing, played a piano-accordion and sang like a bird. Like others, I stood and watched her on cold nights. She’d placed herself in a light best suited to her style and her head, under a jaunty bowler hat, moved beguilingly to the music. Watching her felt like being in a French movie.

A workable definition of futility is a busker playing his or her own compositions. People want to hear familiar things, to be reminded of times and places and to gauge how well the performer can play. Two guitarists stand out in memory – neither seen for some time now. The guy I imagine to be a session musician, who performed with an electronic backing, and an acoustic guitar player with a voice that did justice to the familiar songs. Both knew the words, all the words, and when they were able to sing a few of my favourites I dug deep

The only thing worse than a busker who can’t sing in tune is one who gets the words wrong.

Jean and I are in King Street every second Friday night taking our seven-year-old grandson to dinner at the Italian Bowl. Usually, by the time we finish, a female saxophonist is playing as we make our way home. She plays softly, hauntingly, and sure enough I can hear the clever, teasing variations on ‘Moon River’ and ‘Stranger on the Shore’.