Robbed, heckled and cheered: why I’ll miss busking at Tottenham Court Road station
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Version 0 of 1. Tottenham Court Road Pitch 1 was my first ever pitch as a licensed London busker. It seemed natural enough; as a teenager on my maiden voyage from the West Country to the Virgin Megastore, the sound of someone busking the Clash as I wandered wide-eyed past the Paolozzi tiles made me realise I’d found my calling. It didn’t occur to me then that you gave buskers money; to me, they were just part of the city’s ebullience, proof that it was brimming over with excitement. It didn’t occur to me, either, that decades later I would be that busker, nervously laying out my case and tuning up before tentatively picking out some Leonard Cohen. I was robbed that first time; just of my takings, thankfully. It wasn’t long before I heard about people who had had their guitars smashed and stolen in the same spot. I counted myself lucky it hadn’t been more traumatic. It was such a popular pitch with buskers that Transport for London, which organises and books the licensed buskers, would only allow one booking per busker per week. The good ones went fast. The 10pm slot was particularly hard to get because that was when the Dominion emptied out – not only did the station feature in Ben Elton’s We Will Rock You but what could be better business for buskers than commuters fresh from a musical about keeping music alive? Unable to book the evening pitches, I found a regular, less popular time between commuters and the hungry, and for years I busked the 10am slot on Fridays or Saturdays. I started out covering artists such as Tom Waits, New Order and the Clash, throwing in some 70s folk if the demographic allowed. This seemed to work, but slowly the traffic changed and when the Primark bags started swinging down the tunnels, the nods and winks gave way to blank stares. One of the other buskers, a hardened rocker, stopped doing the pitch when the Astoria closed. Apparently he was last seen there packing up, shaking his head morosely while proclaiming: “These are not my people.” But I wasn’t going to give up. I carefully picked chart songs I liked and gradually regained my momentum. I sang my own songs there, too, and on quiet days even wrote them. I got to know my regulars. There was a woman who came every Saturday morning to “get away from BLOODY Essex!”. She was in her 70s and always gave me two £2 coins and told me how much she loved my music. The last time I saw her she was dancing down the tunnel blowing me kisses. Then there was a young guy with a beard and a guitar who would always give me a plectrum when he passed. And another middle-aged man would give me a considered critique each time he passed, whether I was getting better or worse and why, and he was usually right. I won’t miss him. Knowing that Denmark Street’s legendary Tin Pan Alley was going to close, I prepared myself; there would be no more bands traipsing through to rehearsals and nowhere I could buy new strings mid-pitch. But it came as a shock when someone told me two weeks before Christmas that the pitch was about to close. I knew Crossrail was coming but I thought we had a couple more years yet; although it was obvious the tunnel was being shut down, I had blocked the thought entirely. Tottenham Court Road Pitch 1 had been part of my psyche for so long; I adored its unique acoustics and the constant flow of people coming directly at me then turning off at an angle as if I was their hinge. It was that pitch that made me want to busk; whoever it was I heard when I was a teenager revolutionised how I thought about busking. Before that, it was all folk and tin whistlers. I wrote songs to sing there long before I’d even learned to play the guitar. To say I am going to miss it is an understatement; I have dreamed about it nearly every night since it closed. By chance, I played the last ever slot. It was something and nothing; a 10pm pitch with no Ben Elton crowd, but a lot of tourists who were merry enough. I cranked it up as loud as I could and sang a set of my own songs, ending with The Shannon which is the first of my own songs I ever sang there. I took some photos, and something died in me when I left. It was truly the end of an era. However, sitting on the bus home, I realised I felt privileged to have been a part of it. There are new stations and pitches opening all the time, and people coming to London and hearing things they have never heard before, and I still want to be part of that. London is all about change and, like most buskers, I can’t get enough of it. Kirsten McClure is a singer-songwriter and full time busker. Buy her debut EP at www.kirstenmcclure.bandcamp.com |