Below is a self-indulgent rant against buskers. I set myself the target of producing blogposts as often as possible, but have discovered I rarely have much to say. Enjoy.
I like music, I am a musician of sorts. I even won Hertfordshire under 18s Battle of the Bands many years ago. We were awarded with £300 and the chance to play an outdoor concert in the centre of Letchworth Garden City. It was during a cold winters day, the instruments went out of tune with each strumming of a chord, and an old man told us to be quiet, but we didn’t we stuck it to the man (at least that particular one) by playing for our allotted time and then buggering off.
So it might seem a bit hypocritical when I say I hate wannabe musicians and their insistence on trying to get people to listen to their music. In my defence, I am a hypocrite, it’s one of my few consistencies. There are many reasons for hating them. I know it may seem a bit extreme to brand them with such a powerful word, what with all the people in the world more deserving of it (Isis, Boris Johnson, various cowardly Leave campaigners who campaigned, got what they want and then fucked off, Donald Trump, Putin, James Franco, paedophiles etc.).
First of all – for all their claims to love music, and for music to be their life, they warble on with the same tired and basic songs. That is buskers and those that play in pubs. I have more respect if they do their own songs… even if they’re shit, at least they’re not cheating. Any beanie wearing twat you see playing in a pub, whenever they eventually (for they will, it’s inevitable) start strumming the opening chords to Wonderwall, be sure to stand up and punch them right in their arrogant and most probably bearded faces. Oasis were shit, it’s a well-known fact. Their terribleness is apparent in how popular they are at open-mic nights in pubs and how everyone sings along. Their songs are easy, culminating in tuneless wailing, which is why they go down well in such a location, because drunk people can sing along with ease. It’s cheating. Anyone can get a reaction by playing Wonderwall to the ignorant masses who don’t know any better.
Buskers in a busy town or city centre utilise the ‘Oasis factor’ as a shield. They think people will tolerate them more, if they’re ruining known hits that have been played so much that they’re already ruined. In which case, become a background buzz, like an annoying fly constantly batting its head against a window pane. Bland enough to be largely ignored, but loud enough to be irritating after time, an act they expect us to pay them for.
There is one particular busker round my way, who wears sunglasses, whatever the weather. Occasionally, he wears stylish musician hats. He seems to think he has all the ingredients necessary for success, sunglasses, hat, acoustic guitar and a set list of bland songs. I hate him. I hope he dies of some rare blood disorder. Harsh I know, but one must be honest in life.
The problem may be due to the lack of music specific venues willing to give amateurs their chance. Contrary to what I have just stated (here I go again, I’m a complex individual in many ways) I do enjoy seeing live music, particularly from artists (and I use the term in its broadest sense) we have yet to experience. However, I enjoy them at a time and place of my choosing. I resent them when I go to my local for a pint and a chat with the friends I haven’t seen for some time (because they’re actively avoiding me) and in these narcissistic bellends march, acoustic guitars in hand with egos completely disproportionate to their talent. They play obnoxiously loud, with songs we have heard time and time again, done in the same way, actively preventing people who just want to drink, from drinking. I hate them, I hate them all.
Don’t get me started on opinionated bloggers. They’re everywhere.