Now we are out of The City.
The Underground Buskers
Running through Sauchiehall Street at two in the morning: away from the undesirables who are chasing for the change.
Our feet smack against the pavement as we dodge the twilight traffic and the polis [1]. I turn to my friend and shout through the rain and the weeping.
“Feel like chips?”
“Sure. Grab the loot! [2]”
*
I stand ever-so suggestively in our regular spot; ‘cigarette’ smoke tickling my nostrils, while the Friday night crowds begin to thicken on an August evening. Welcome to the Mean City: the home of the Glaswegians and the galoots [3], the fiends and the friendly, the beggars and the buskers. Tonight, we are the latter; and with one crafty swoop, we’ve stolen our stage outside the pubs. “Ready?” I ask my companion, as we glance at the oncoming throng of drunken businessmen with silly money. Excitedly, she nods, and with a final inhalation of sweet smoke, we pick up our violins.
As we start to play, the sound of our fiddles hit the masses like a force in their inebriated state; the rhythms engulfing their carefree and foolish minds. Watch them now - this is when you draw them to you: build up the pace, paint the crescendo - hit the finger-board faster and faster! And as our fingers skip skilfully across D’Addario strings, we begin to meet and greet the world.
The Irish passing on their bikes slow down for the reel while the Cardiffians start drunkenly demanding their “national anthem!” We laugh at the London businessmen who keep politely quiet - they’re not sure what’s going on. And in the foreground, our fellow Glaswegians just dance and drink from their stolen beer mugs, shouting, “Belt out ‘Caledonia [4]’, hen[5]!” Now the waiters in the restaurants press against windows; the lassies in the off-license peer round the doors, while the Navy on-leave start swaying to the bittersweet song of their homeland; learning it all by heart. And in the background, the junkies and the homeless linger quite harmlessly. (We kick the case shut though, for now.) Can you hear the coins rattling?
Then suddenly – a flash of yellow - and the polis come waltzing through a midnight shower to the ‘Ashokan Farewell’. The Irish bid goodbye: the English leave their calling card. The Welsh? They scatter to the station (- jovially pissed off because we didn’t know their national anthem). The Glaswegians, however, just laugh in the uproar, as we graciously take a final bow amongst the madness. Then we scramble for the money and throw our instruments in their cases. “Just grab the loot! Grab the loot, Amy! They’re coming!” Then we run off into the night; past the homeless, the helplessly drunk and the homesick: a lone marine sits crying on a nearby bench. He weeps for Caledonia. But we keep on running into the dark, figures in gold behind. We hear the Marine shout into the sky as we run through scarlet lights: “Play on, girls! Play on.”
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