On a humid cloudy day a few years ago, I was ambling down Culver Street, towards its junction with Trinity Street when the street suddenly became alive with music. The notes of Besame Mucho came skittering out of a trumpet and accordion and went bouncing off the walls and shopfronts, momentarily transforming the atmosphere. Two buskers, Eastern Europeans, at a rough guess, were playing competently and in free jazz style. This didn't make much difference to the majority of passing shoppers, but it lifted my own mood. The duo shifted seamlessly into Historia De Un Amor, ‒ you'd probably recognise it if you heard it ‒ and the song remained in my head for half of the morning.
I don't know who these particular musicians are but I've often seen them around and they're always good. Colchester, although it may not yet possess the cultural cachet of Covent Garden, is accustomed to its buskers. From the raggedy bloke with the penny whistle in Eld Lane, to the occasional classical quartet of broke music students who sometimes play in Culver Street, the town is rarely without some sort of a free soundtrack.
In the early 1970s, though, you hardly ever saw buskers. Back then, there was only one that I knew of. He was called Derek, a red-haired wiry looking bloke in a cowboy hat, who bashed out old country songs on a guitar. Sometimes, when I passed The Fountain on St Bololph's Corner, I'd see him sat there playing barrel-house piano to a handful of rough-looking early drinkers. Buskers, were generally frowned upon in those days and the police often moved them on. The situation prevailed right up until the mid 1980s, especially in London, where buskers in tube stations were regularly fined.
And then something changed. The story goes that retail researchers in America discovered that people in the new shopping malls, often spent more money if there were buskers around. This coincided with a report that travellers on the London Underground, felt safer, in the lonely walkways whenever buskers were present. Even the police reluctantly agreed that a busker might provide a useful deterrent, or even bear useful witness to certain crimes, such as mugging or theft. While not actually condoned, from this point onwards, London's buskers began to have a slightly easier time of it
Surprisingly, Colchester was actually ahead of many other places in the country, when it came to an enlightened attitude towards street musicians. The man chiefly responsible for this was Derek Ashbee, who early in 1988 managed the then-recently launched Culver Precinct. He publicised the fact that the precinct was looking for buskers to play there. Now, you might have thought that Mr Ashbee would have been trampled by musicians in the rush for an official pitch ‒ especially one from which they wouldn't be be moved on.
He wasn't, though. The thing was, that Colchester's buskers, the few who existed at that time, often claimed state benefit. Getting a permit for busking meant that you had to fill in a small form giving a few personal details, thereby jeopardising any such claim. In addition, a few buskers, by virtue of their own itinerancy, may not even have been able to provide the required address.
Conversely, many pro musicians would have felt it beneath them ‒ only one step down from begging ‒ to play in the street. But in the late winter of 1988 there were at least two local musicians, who, their band having recently broken up, were flat broke and desperate to work. This is how, in April of 1988, my friend Nel and I became Colchester's first licensed buskers. Mr. Ashbee told us that he would need to audition us first. It was a simple formality. Having filled in our forms, we went down to the Square and played him two or three songs. “Fine.” he said and gave us a permit. A couple of mornings each week, for several months afterwards, we turned up and played a three hour morning shift.
We took it seriously and dressed in tailcoats, like ragamuffin orchestra musicians. We used a combination of instruments as well as our voices. We jigged around quite a bit. We had to. It was cold. On freezing mornings, we took it in turns to nip round to the public loos in Sir Issacs Walk to thaw out our hands in the hand driers. We learned much. Busking you see, is a straight contract between performer and audience. If they like you, they throw money.
We discovered that we made more money on cold wet days, than on sunny ones. Middle-aged, well-dressed women were the best payers. Old 1960s hits were the most popular songs. Children liked watching us and their parents, more shy than their offspring, often sent them over to put money in our cases. Old ladies smiled at us. Apart from money, people sometimes threw strange, and sometimes, quite illegal things in our collection case. A three-hour session was hard work and we ended up with strained throats and aching finger-tips. Nel and I both moved on to better things. I remember it as a hard time but a good time. Of the two Dereks mentioned earlier, Derek, Colchester's original busker, died some years ago. Derek Ashbee continued to manage Culver Precinct for some years. God bless them both.
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