Busking in Madrid: Autobusk

An article by graduate, Andrew Aprile, about his adventure busking in Madrid

My first musical endeavor in Madrid's public sphere was not very much of a performance. I boarded Linea 5 at its first stop, Alameda de Osuna, and prepared myself for the long journey ahead. On that night, only a few days into the New Year, I had been bombarded with heavy truths by the madrileña temptress mainly responsible for my trip to Spain in the first place. This commute demanded the emotional support of my six-stringed wonder whose beautiful curves have always been there for me.

I thought that I would have the train car to myself as I unraveled my cable and took out my Dan Electro amp. The miniature, vintage-style, teal-blue speaker in tandem with my Mexican white on white Stratocaster have come to define my guitar sound in Spain (despite ambitions to learn flamenco styles). The faint buzz of intensity emitted forth and I looked up to find a punk-inclined teenage girl. My musical diary entry would have an audience and one passenger's listening attention would find itself at the whim of a personal concert.

I did not look up very much so as not to become distracted by any expectations of a reaction. But during the second major lull of my opus-in-progress, I found her eyes anticipating the moment. In Spanish, most of it unknown to me at the time, she complemented my music. The word musica could only convey so much, and the adjectives she used were a mystery. Her language was mainly communicated with a beaming smile, and I was grateful.

As the show went on, a group of Hispanic people got on the train and seemed a bit off-put by the laid-back, non-intrusive methods of yours truly. The music didn't reflect any sensibilities by my own and it was presented as such. I disembarked a few stops later, and though not completely healed, my heartache had been remedied to a small extent.

My first real attempt at a Madrid audience was a different story. On this occasion, the same music would be present to the passers-by and I would readily take note of their reception. Perhaps a spectator would stop, not necessarily unwilling to listen; perhaps the music would be an imposition on bystanders and pedestrians alike.

I had staked out the most perfect spot - a small plaza along Calle Huertas with trees and benches. The first note proved the most difficult to play. I struck the chord with the fervor of a rock star playing in front of an attentive and actual crowd, though the force of my 9v battery-powered amplifier could not convey the conviction that brought to bear my insistence on an audience. Moments earlier a guy in a very cool hat that was not too cool, lest it might seem pretentious, gave me the nod as I plugged my quarter-inch cable into its companion jack. His nod was assurance to my hesitation, encouragement for my lack of confidence.

A small child tugged at her guardian's sleeve to point me out. I noticed and hoped that they appreciated. I suspect it possible that they may have taught the girl an early life lesson on how and why not to be a bum later in life, but I saved the conjecture.

Alas, the volume could not be boosted any further. I had come unprepared, with only one dying battery. The sound of my electric guitar faded into a oblivion and I hadn't gained a single centimo.

Something was missing.

Andrew Aprile

Part 2 - Busking in Madrid: The Collaboration