by Patrick Driver
Only a skilled melophobe, or perhaps more accurately in some cases, ligyrophobe, could walk down Cornmarket Street at the weekend without encountering at least one busker. It is not uncommon to see schoolboys honking on saxophones under the Anglo-Saxon church tower, or the Peruvian equivalent of Hanson outside the phone shop (a six year-old playing the drums is impressive, but I can’t help wondering if the joy on everyone’s faces as they watch is akin to that derived from watching a dancing bear). But there is a wealth of more accomplished musicians of all varieties to be found performing around Oxford every week.
We’ve all seen them, heard them play, even given money to them, but while some are central pillars of life in the centre of town (bagpipes, anybody?), few of us know much about Oxford’s buskers. Ever eager to please, your reporter has done the hard work for you. With its lack of traffic and proliferation of shoppers and assorted other pedestrians, Cornmarket really is the place to be for a busk, and so there I headed on a gloomy Friday afternoon…
That Friday afternoon must have been the first occasion for some considerable time when Cornmarket was entirely devoid of buskers. Fortunately, walking past the Clarendon Centre I heard a smooth ‘cello melody easing itself through the doors and calling me in. There I found Dave Loew surrounded by an exhibition of newspaper articles, CDs and a scrap book. Having introduced myself, the first thing Dave told me was that he is not a busker. This was not my day. What the hell, I thought, I’ll tell you about him anyway. He has a story, you see.
Dave started to learn the ‘cello aged six, before studying at the New South Wales Conservatorium. He became the principle cellist for the Australian Ballet and Opera Orchestra, before returning to London, where he played with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and the Royal Philharmonic, as well as being a regular freelance musician in the London Symphony Orchestra, playing in various West End shows and recording for film soundtracks. Having failed to secure a record deal, three years ago he hired the Royal Albert Hall, acting as promoter, soloist and star. "The record industry is stupid", he told The Telegraph at the time, "They don’t know what they are doing and I want to say, ‘up yours – how wrong you all are and what a wonderful talent I am’." This is redolent of the rantings of so many X-Factor rejects.
But Dave Loew clearly has the skills to pay the bills, and his credentials go considerably beyond those of most X-Factor wannabes and buskers (he is not a busker, remember). He has produced three CDs of his own, and has paid for them to be pressed. Despite lacking the sex appeal of a Vanessa Mae, his sales have reached 160,000 in seven years. Tracks from his albums have been played on Radio 2, Radio 3, Classic FM amongst others. He has clients and fans in countries all round the globe, though curiously the president of his fan club is a rodent named Sophie. It was rather a surprise to find all this out about a man I happened upon in the Clarendon Centre, playing his ‘cello and selling his CDs. As I talked to him a man paid double for one of his albums, despite Dave’s protestations. I was rather pleased by this, for I didn’t have the money, and nor, if I am being entirely honest, were his albums to my particular taste, and he was not only donating 35% of his sales that day to breast cancer research, but also was also most obliging.
Re-emerging onto Cornmarket street, I was delighted to hear the sound of an accordion-like instrument playing merrily away. Further down the street was a smartly dressed, flame-haired, bearded man who was bobbing up and down enthusiastically as he played upbeat morris music. When I finally managed to jump in between extended periods of play, I discovered his name was Jamie Huddlestone, a very friendly character who was pleased to chat away for some time, and that the instrument was a melodeon, or button accordion. He is another street musician with an established musical background. Having learnt the piano and guitar as a kid, he moved on to violin and became a folk fiddler. Missing the ability to play chords, he finally turned to his most recently acquired instrument.
Fiddling in the West Country, he came to Oxford almost on a whim following a split with his violin partner, slept in his car, and soon enough started busking. On his first day he was given tickets to see The Pixies, and by the end of his first week he had three dates fixed – ‘One turned out alright’. He has since been the assistant manager at Jessop’s, but now takes part-time jobs to supplement his busking. On a good day, performing for a two or three hours, he earns about £80. Busking keeps him ‘ticking over in terms of money, but I just love being out playing’.
Jamie turns out to provide quite a window onto the busking scene in Oxford, which is seemingly not without camaraderie (though I’m told the regulars are not happy when groups turn up on Saturdays and play all day). He recommends a French jazz-influenced band called Les Alcolytes, a middle-aged guitarist regular by the name of Max Moonlight, a Paraguayan harpist, and The Huckleberries. Now, having recently come out of the folk closet, I’m glad he mentioned the latter. They can be seen every so often on Cornmarket, drawing large crowds and spreading jollity. The band consists of four blokes with long hair and beards, one bloke with stubble, and a guy who makes up for his relative hairlessness by looking a touch aberrant and having a bowler hat and a green violin. They are perhaps my favourite Oxford buskers, though not as common a feature in the life of an Oxford student as the guy who sits in the doorway of GAP and plays the guitar at night. I asked Jamie about him. His name is Asish (though the spelling is open to debate), and he may live in Witney. Jamie described him as a ‘gypsy-jazz freak’ who sits in Caffè Nero for a couple of hours before playing, caressing the fingerboard of his guitar and practising sotto voce. Despite the fact he doesn’t appear to invite voluntary donations, he does make half a living from his nocturnal strumming.
Whilst we were chatting away the general bustle of the street was pierced by the sound of the pipes, and so I walked on to find their source, Heath. I found him at first a little intimidating, but thankfully Jamie had given me his name and advised dropping some coins. I started by asking about his music, reasonably enough. He plays mostly modern Scottish tunes, which he renders undeniably energetically. He is, though, another musical polymath, accomplished also on folk fiddle and tin whistle amongst much else, and playing in a well-respected Celtic band by the name of Slâinte (I didn’t attempt to spell it until I saw it on Heath’s teeshirt). His mother brought him up listening to folk music in Australia (surprising, given he was wearing shorts on a cold afternoon – though I gather the piping is hot work). And he isn’t bad, either. A man who sat near Heath as he played, and tapped his tobacco tin to the beat, said ‘Kickin’, man – an’ tha’s comin’ from a Scot’.
Predictably, though, there are people who get annoyed by his music. He tells me that a man who lives on the other side of the street to his spot complains to the Council every time he busks there, and when first I asked to question him he was wary, worried that I would be writing from the angle of ‘the people that want to shoot me’. Those that work in the nearby shops know that they can’t complain, he explains, because he stays within the rules. The rules, by the way, are that there are three spots for buskers on Cornmarket, that you may not play more than three one-hour sets in one day, and that you must have given your name to the council and agreed to obey the other rules.I ask him why he busks. ‘Survival – paying bills.’ And does it do him well? ‘There are good days and bad days. Let’s just say that England is a very expensive country to live in. But I get by.’ He tells me that what he would have earned in eight hours in some of the low-paid jobs he’s done he can make in an hour on the street, which I find pleasing, as he must be bringing significantly more pleasure to other people and to himself this way too. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’, I ask. ‘Be nice to buskers.’
