3/5/11

Tuba Man: Seattle's Famous Street Musician, Ed McMichael (1955-2008)

With a brassy "street name" like that of some improbable superhero, Ed "Tuba Man" McMichael, made a remarkable impact on his fellow townsfolk during a two-decade-long career as a Seattle musician who supported himself by earning tips from passersby who often made requests and tossed coins into the big horn. 
Known for his silly hats, funny quips, friendly mien, odd manner, and basso profundo musicality, Tuba Man became a popular fixture within the community. Performing regularly wherever crowds gathered -- from game days outside big sports venues, to film openings at various theaters, to concert and ballet nights outside the Seattle Center Opera House -- he (like the Beerman, Peanut Man, and Spoonman before him) became a Northwest icon.
Musical Beginnings
Born on March 15, 1955, and raised in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle, Edward Scott McMichael began playing music on his family's piano but then, as a rebellious teen, he switched to tuba -- at least in part, according to his sister, Joyce Baker -- "to get back at my mother ... because she didn't like it particularly." An understandable perspective considering that when her son practiced down in the basement, "the house shook" (The New York Times).
After graduating from the Shoreline neighborhood's King's Garden High School in 1973, McMichael -- who was blessed with perfect pitch -- went on to join the music department's band while attending North Seattle Community College. From there he performed with the Seattle Youth Symphony, the Cascade Symphony of Edmonds, and for a decade as the principal tubist with the Bellevue Philharmonic orchestra.

Tubby the Tuba
McMichael's chosen instrument -- a contrabass tuba that he'd nicknamed "Tubby" -- is the lowest-pitched member of the family of brass wind instruments. Perhaps the most unlikely of instruments one might ever witness being played on a street corner, the XXL-sized tuba (Latin for "trumpet") is not an ancient invention. Its design was first patented in 1835 in Germany and after gaining initial favor in British brass bands later that century, the tuba eventually crossed the Atlantic Ocean where the instrument ended up serving a key role in the early jazz bands of New Orleans.
Along the way, tubas won a fan-base of people and players who loved the lowdown instrument. Indeed, every year since 1979 the first Friday in May has been celebrated in an increasing number of American states and foreign countries as International Tuba Day. A website promoting the cause notes that many people "think of the tuba as just being one of those big, loud instruments that go 'oompah' in the back of parades -- having no real importance and being easy to play -- they're just there to look nice. As for tuba players, many people view them in the old stereotyped way: they have no real musical talent, no personality, just big, fat bodies with puffy cheeks and powerful lungs" (tubaday.com).
Now, certainly Tuba Man was a "big" fellow with "puffy cheeks and powerful lungs" -- but no one could ever fairly claim that he was a personality-free no-talent.

Tuba Man the Super Fan
McMichael began his career of performing outdoors -- rain or shine -- at the suggestion of a friend. His long run of sidewalk gigs at the Kingdome kicked-off on December 23, 1989, the final game-day for Seahawk Hall-of-Fame wide receiver, Steve Largent. And to Tuba Man's great surprise, he was rewarded with donations from sports fans who appreciated the efforts to entertain them while waiting in entry lines.
Like a merry musical migrant worker, McMichael soon developed his seasonal busking routes: fall was for football, winter saw him lugging his horn toward the Seattle Coliseum (today's Key Arena) for Sonics games, summer's Mariners games brought him to Safeco Field. Other times he and Tubby could be found outside of Thunderbirds, Sounders, and Storm games. Tuba Man became such a dependable presence -- and one that became associated in peoples' minds with such events -- that Sports Illustrated once acknowledged him as a "super fan."
And a devoted fan he was: whenever possible McMichael attended games – occasionally via the generosity of his own fans who slipped their Tuba Man a free ticket.  Similar gestures of appreciation also occurred when staffers at the Pacific Northwest Ballet made sure McMichael gained free entry to see shows whose audiences he had just entertained outdoors at the Opera House (today's McCaw Hall).
Tuba Tunes
One reason that McMichael gained such a broad swath of friends and admirers was his sense of musical humor.  This character -- who already looked bemusing with his wacky hardhat (or Uncle Sam hat, or striped Dr. Suessian "Cat in the Hat" headgear) -- was known for selecting thematically relevant songs for every situation. Game day would often find him blatting "Take Me Out To The Ballgame." A rainy day would bring out "Itsy Bitsy Spider." A home team victory could dependably spark the giddy "If You're Happy and You Know It" -- while a loss would merit the anthemic "Chariots of Fire." A patriotic vibe led to the "The Star Spangled Banner," while a jazzy spirit brought on "When The Saints Come Marching In."
In addition, Tuba Man used music as a sort of shorthand greeting for old friends and acquaintances. Upon spotting someone he knew, he might signal them from afar with a snippet from a tune he associated with them -- even such off-the-wall selections as the "Flintstones Theme" or the "Adams Family Theme." He also happily took requests -- which rarely stumped him -- and he could rock-out with tunes ranging from the Champs' "Tequila," to the Kingsmen's "Louie Louie," to Black Sabbath's "Iron Man," to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4."

Urbanity & Humanity
Around midnight on October 25, 2008, McMichael was assaulted, beaten, and robbed of his wallet and ring by six teenaged thugs near a bus-stop at 5th Avenue and Mercer Street. Luckily, the attack was witnessed by a police officer who happened to drive up to the scene. Two 15-year old assailants were arrested on the spot -- the stolen ring was recovered -- and police began searching for the four who fled (one of whom would be arrested on November 5th for suspicion of homicide).
McMichael was transported to Harborview Medical Center for treatment -- upon being struck down he had reportedly hit his head on the pavement. After being released, the musician returned to his apartment at the Vermont Inn (2721 4th Avenue) to recover, and though shaken by the incident, he was healing up. But when his brother, Kelsey, arrived on the morning on November 3rd to take him to another doctor's appointment, McMichael was discovered dead in his bed -- presumably due to his head injury.
Seattle was shocked by the senseless attack and by Tuba Man's sudden passing. Sports blogs raged against the violent crime. Editorialists saluted the man. Friends posted messages both grieving and vengeful on various online forums. Within the week, a tribute event featuring a gathering of musicians performing tunes from McMichael's eclectic canon occurred outside the McCaw Hall. It was on Saturday, November 8, that KOMO news coverage quoted one participating musician, John Bigelow, stating that "He's part of the community you hate to see go. This is what makes urban living urbane. He was a real nice thing we had going on ... so we will miss him."
Talk had already begun -- and initial funds raised -- for a statue to honor Tuba Man and his esteemed place in the area's pop culture. One attendee guided the crowd across the Seattle Center grounds and over toward the Children's Museum in order to point out that among the many paver tiles (customized with donors' names and/or messages) imbedded there is one that McMichael had purchased (probably with tips funds), etched with his own message of gratefulness. It reads:
THANK YOU EVERYONE
FOR ALL THE TIPS. THE
MONEY ALWAYS PAID
THE BILLS, REDUCED
THE DEBTS AND FED
THE TUBA MAN. EDWARD
SCOTT MCMICHAEL.
Blowing in the Wind
On Wednesday, November 12, 2008, a second memorial was held at Qwest Field Event Center, and before a crowd of 1,500 people KOMO television commentator, Ken Schram, bemoaned that "This city -- this world -- was a lot better place with Ed McMichael in it." News of Tuba Man's fate headlined articles from Boston to San Diego, Chicago to Miami. The New York Times eulogized the man: "Some people say ... he was a martyr, a victim of urban violence that must be stopped," noting also of his diminished hometown, "And some say Tuba Man represented the increasingly smothered soul of this city, more substantial and strange than its clichéd sheen of coffee and computers."
One sorrowful Seattle Times discussion-board contributor chimed in on that same notion of Seattle rapidly losing its old eccentric quirkiness: "Today's Seattle is richer and smoother and slicker than it once was. Ed McMichael did his best to prevent that" -- while another wrote (at the Seattle Weekly) of the dearly departed musician: "i can still hear him so clear, his familiar voice, the notes ascending from his brass. his notes will hum forever thru the breeze..."

A Famous Street Artists-- Banksy

Banksy is an anonymous English graffiti artist,political activist, film director and painter. His satirical street art and subversive epigrams combine irreverent dark humour with graffiti done in a distinctive stencilling technique. Such artistic works of political and social commentary have been featured on streets, walls, and bridges of cities throughout the world.
Banksy's work was born out of the Bristol underground scene which involved collaborations between artists and musicians. According to author and graphic designer Tristan Manco, Banksy "was born in 1974 and raised in Bristol, England. The son of a photocopier technician, he trained as a butcher but became involved in graffiti during the great Bristol aerosol boom of the late 1980s." Observers have noted that his style is similar toBlek le Rat, who began to work with stencils in 1981 in Paris and members of the anarcho-punk band Crass who maintained a graffiti stencil campaign on the London Tube System in the late 1970s and early 1980s and is active today.
Known for his contempt for the government in labelling graffiti as vandalism, Banksy displays his art on public surfaces such as walls and even going as far as to build physical prop pieces. Banksy does not sell photos of street graffiti directly himself; however, art auctioneers have been known to attempt to sell his street art on location and leave the problem of its removal in the hands of the winning bidder. Banksy's first film, Exit Through the Gift Shop, billed as "the world's first street art disaster movie", made its debut at the 2010 Sundance Film Festivel. The film was released in the UK on 5 March 2010. In January 2011, he was nominated for the Acedemy Award for Best Documentary for the film.


How Does Street Art Help Cities?

What’s the draw?

Rose explained the blossoming of graffiti art. “I think it has to do a lot with a generational shift. We grew up with it as our daily cereal in the morning. The ’60s had flower power and the next generation had punk and graffiti and that sort of permeated the culture,” he said.

Rose came to street art from a place of playfulness; the subversive elements and fun were part of his attraction. “To me it is a game,” he said. But for Man One and Retna, it was their outlet from gang life and violence. “It’s what saved me,” Man One confessed, recalling having guns and knives pulled on him when he was younger. “There’s an innate need for us to voice who we are…and to me, that’s serious.”

As a curator, Polk’s draw to street art came from the visceral, transcendent moments it can spark for anyone wandering through a city. A week or so earlier, Polk recalled that he and his wife had driven down a street they frequented. Something had caught his eye: a spray-painted face on a white fence. His wife hurried him along to their engagement, but he returned to the spot later. He examined the art closer and saw not only the face, but candles, shattered glass, and a dented tree nearby. It was clear to Polk that a person had died there. “For me, it’s a space that has had no meaning suddenly becoming a place of mourning of grieving,” he said. “And now for the rest of my life, that will never be just a white fence.”

Retna agreed that street art isn’t only about artists, but also about the people who pass each piece every day. He said his work — from “ego-based” pieces with “the crew” to murals for the homeless on Skid Row — is always been about the people. “I always felt the work was community-related regardless,” he said. “Something that makes you smile for 20 seconds out of your day.”

Community and the code of ethics

Man One was quick to set up the distinction between street art, which he believed to be an “all-encompassing kind of thing”, and graffiti, which he described as an art that took a lot of years of “practice and dedication.” Graffiti has a set of rules and even a culture, almost a code of ethics, he explained.
Moderator Finkel noted this sense of community, salient among street artists, defies our sense of the lonely, starving artist. Rose, however, saw this unity as a recurring historical pattern for artistic counterculture. “Avante-garde artists are ostracized from the main art world,” he explained, “and every major movement was collaborative.”



Man One described the broad street art community as his go-to: “I can travel half way around the world and have a place to stay and a place to paint and have a tour guide that may not even speak my language, but we have a commonality.”

During Q&A, an audience member asked whether women have a place in the street art world. Retna explained that women have always been there but, “It’s a difficult sport to play. There’s a lot of pain, there’s a lot of struggle. You got to get dirty.” He did note that more and more women were joining the ranks and receiving recognition.

Going corporate

Rose noted that street artists are often torn between two worlds: mainstream America and “street America.” The issue is finding a common language. “I’m not talking about English and Spanish, I’m talking about a different way of thinking,” he said. As he put it, every profession has its own language, and the art world is no exception. The artists who are the most successful, he claimed, are the ones who can speak both “street talk” and fluent corporate American.
Man One recalled his early years as a painter in the ’90s and the difficulty of finding venues and income for his work. At a certain point, he said, companies started approaching him for design work. He described the transition from being anonymous to going public as something like when a celebrity realizes he or she can profit off a sex tape. And whether it was for T-shirts or shoes, he explained, he never lost sight of what it was: “It’s a gig.” In the end, he conceded, echoing Rose’s playful comments, “I know how the game works and it’s a game.”

Retna noted that companies were starting to come around and understand that game a little better as well, meaning more resources and opportunities for artists. Though he admitted that there were negative aspects to commercialization, he also said, “From a graffiti standpoint, you feel most upset when a graphic designer copies someone instead of just hiring an artist.” Retna cautioned that companies could face a backlash for such a move.

Man One summed up the fusion of the commercial and the cultural at the end of the Q&A in a comment on the role of street art in Los Angeles: “L.A. is different because there’s surf culture, skate culture, street culture…and there’s Disneyland. And it works.”

2/5/11

BUSKING AS A WAY OF LIFE

It takes patience, grit and talent to make a living as a busker in the London Underground--and a collection of 20 disposable mobile phones might come in handy. Gary Moskowitz reveals the quirks of the profession ...
Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE
“’Organised busking’ is sort of an oxymoron, really,” says Mike “Bucky” Muttel, as he taps and plucks his way through Pat Metheny covers on his amplified Chapman Stick deep inside London’s vast Waterloo Tube station. But to busk--the practice of performing in public spaces for tips--inside the London Underground, musicians have to play by the rules if they want to play at all. And Muttel is no exception.
 
Muttel's official busking license, good for one year, hangs visibly from a lanyard around his neck. It took six months of rigmarole to obtain that license, in which time he applied, auditioned for a panel of four or five London Underground staff members and agreed to a mandatory police background check. The process didn't cost anything, but took talent, patience and a little luck (audition judges are not required to have backgrounds in music). Still, of the 400 buskers that audition each year, 80% pass. Now that he’s in the system, Muttel is not required to re-audition; he just re-applies for his permit every year. He has been busking for almost three years.
A sticker, stating that he has checked in with a London Underground supervisor, is also clearly displayed on his tattered T-shirt (he will also have to check out). “Busking isn’t meant to be organised, but at the same time, this is a chance for me to book eight hours a day of serious playing. And I’m an obsessed performer. I record every busking session to see if I’m improving or not. I’m not really here for the money,” Muttel says. “I’m like a tunnel mole.”
A busker’s performance spot is a “pitch”. To reserve a pitch in London’s Underground, buskers must call in to an automated phone service on Tuesday mornings up to two weeks in advance. The process can be gruelling. On a good day, performers may be in a queue for about an hour and a half, hitting redial over and over again. But the task can take up to a day or two. Some buskers own multiple phones--Muttel knows guys with as many as 20 disposable ones--to maximise their efforts to secure a good pitch.
Of the 28 or so total pitches at 21 Tube stops throughout central London, some argue there are really only half a dozen ideal spots: two at Green Park, two at Tottenham Court Road, one at Piccadilly Circus and one at Leicester Square. If a busker shows up late for a spot, the previous busker is entitled to stay for the next two-hour time slot. Unsurprisingly, this can get messy. “I’ve seen guys call each other ‘bastard’ and ‘you son of a bitch'," Muttel says." It can get ridiculous.”
You won’t see such antics from Phillipa Leigh. A demure 25-year-old, she can be heard crooning jazz standards such as “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and “Fly Me to the Moon” into a microphone that connects to a lightweight amp. Though her six-month permit took her nearly as long to obtain, she’s genuinely happy to be performing. She plays the occasional private-party concert around town, but busking in London’s labyrinthine Tube system is her primary gig. She’s been at it for four months. “Rehearsal space is expensive and there's no better practice than performing live in front of people going about their day,” Leigh says. “But even here, I have to be careful. If I sing too loud or too fast, it doesn’t go over as well. People want to go about their day and not be bothered.”
If Leigh wanted to change her act in any way, she’d have to re-audition, something she intends to avoid. For now she’s happy to simply be singing. “I also work a few days a week in a shop but singing is my passion. I may not make a lot of money [busking], but I love it,” Leigh says. “This isn’t glamorous, but people will smile if they like it. They have no obligation to do or say anything else. I just show up and sing. There’s a real sense of freedom with that.”
The London Underground established its busking scheme in 2003 to manage what they previously considered an “illegal and unregulated activity.” Carling, the London Paper and Capital Radio all took turns sponsoring the busking programme at various times between 2003 and 2008, but the London Underground now runs the show. They claim that altercations involving buskers have dropped 300% at some stations, and that busking-related police calls are down 72%.
Roughly 250 of the 300 licensed buskers enrolled in the scheme are active, according to a London Underground official who asked not to be quoted for this story. The male-to-female ratio among buskers is about three to one.
Most buskers interviewed for this story seem to appreciate the scheme, however stringent it might be. "I can make a living doing this,” 32-year-old Ramon Fontecilla told me. He plays songs such as Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind” on his keyboard five days a week. “It’s not always pleasant, but it’s better than an office job. I make more money doing this than giving piano lessons.” He’s been busking on the Underground in London for two years. Eventually, he says, he’ll stop busking and join a band that plays classic rock, “like Pink Floyd”.
Busking can feel solitary, lonely even. It can seem more like practicing than performing, given such a passive, transitory audience. By and large, customers of the Tube are hustling through the system and the lone busker is lucky to get a sideways glance. That said, it’s not uncommon for commuters to stop and smile, nod, wave, clap or snap a quick photo as they walk by. One evening, a group of women in their 20s stopped to form a circle around an accordian-playing busker, singing and dancing to his version of "La Bamba".
But occasionally passersby are more pernicious. Some have been known to grab buskers' earnings right from under their noses, according to Muttel. He regularly loops a cord through all of his gear--including his case full of coins--and attaches it to his belt, just to be safe.
Busking's unique social dynamic suits Matthew “Harmonica Matt” Griffiths, a harmonica-playing blues man. Wearing a black leather jacket with missing buttons and a crumpled black fedora, Griffiths perches on a low stool and holds an old, round microphone. A few self-recorded CDs are sprawled on the ground next to his amp. At his waist, Griffiths has a big black belt containing nearly a dozen harmonicas, each of which he has labelled with a letter indicating its key. Sometimes he taps his foot loudly to keep the beat of the song pushing forward.
Between songs, Griffiths describes getting into a knife fight, being kicked out of a hospital, and losing everything but his passport during a trip to New Orleans several years ago. Suddenly, he stares off into space and doesn’t say a word for more than a minute.
“Are you all right?” I ask. No response.
Another minute or two goes by. Finally Griffiths stutters his way back into a story about busking in Memphis, and talks about being a National Harmonica Champion of Great Britain. A minute later Griffiths jumps into a tune he wrote about governor Sarah Palin, someone drops a coin in his bucket, and he’s in his element. Busking is his business