Bandwidth

Artwork by Will McConnell

This was supposed to be a review of The Undertones gig at Mandela Hall last Saturday.  I even had a ticket.  I had such a bad hangover though (that’s right – at 8pm, the next day) I couldn’t face the loud music and crowds, so I just went to a cocktail party I had been invited to.  I figured a few nice strong cocktails would either kill me or straighten me right out, so I took a chance.  Turns out the very thing I needed was a Manhattan (my stupid title might make sense now, but from here on in there will be no references to dogs or Manhattan.  That’s just how I roll.)

So there I was, vowing with every sip to take it easy, and surrounded by beautiful women dressed in classy 50’s styling and it struck me that maybe my overindulgence the previous night had actually finished me off and I had found my way to heaven.  Of course I wasn’t in heaven, but if one day I do go, and it’s not exactly like that party, I don’t figure I’ll hang around very long.  The party started out the way all good cocktail parties do – fancy food, Bobby Darin playing, sophisticated conversation and, of course, delicious drinks.  It also ended the way all good cocktail parties end – at 4am with a few stragglers scavenging the empties for dregs, and some guy passed out on the stairs.  Somewhere along the way – my promises of abstinence drowned in bourbon – a couple of guys showed up already half smashed.  One had an acoustic guitar, the other had fifteen bottles of beer.  They had been out busking for charity and the results had been fairly poor, so they hit the pub and then headed back to the party.  I got talking to them both about the sorry state of busking on our streets and hey voila, our conversation inspired this article.

[Editor’s Note: No Ian, you getting totally fucked up and missing the gig is what inspired this article.]

Sometimes I hate walking through the streets in Belfast.  It can just be a depressing place to be.  People rushing from shop to shop, crossing the street any old time they please – dodging buses like it wasn’t potentially fucking lethal – and trampling anyone too slow-moving to keep up.  It’s no wonder I so often duck into a pub for a pint to calm my jangled nerves.  But I’m concentrating on the negatives here, as I so often do, and my conversation with the musicians highlighted this for me.

Think about it.  In a street bustling with ignorant shoppers, droning with the sound of traffic and smelling like one big recently-pissed-in alley, there are actually people who stand there just to play music.  Music!  Was there ever a more beautiful metaphor for the light in the darkness?  Just a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…his guitar, and enough balls to sing in front of everybody.   And was there ever a more apt metaphor for human apathy than the fact that nearly all of us just ignore these guys?  Like they’re standing in the street trying to sign you up for a credit card or something.  In a world of noise, a rare few go out and play something that sounds nice, and no one gives a shit.  Seems like a damn shame to me.  Seems like a fucking crime when the guy in question has a banner saying he’s collecting for charity.  I mean even if you’re as sick of hearing Wonderwall as I am, throw the guy 50p for a good cause.  Am I wrong?

Hell, I know I’m preaching to the choir.  You are reading this site because you like and support local music, so you’re probably also the people cool enough to have dropped some change into a guitar case once or twice.  And it’s not like I’m walking the streets of Belfast throwing money at every busker I pass.  But when you hear some guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…and you’re impressed by their voice, or they’re playing a song you love that never gets played on the radio, or shit, even if it’s raining and they just look wet and lonely, throw in a couple of coins.  Trust me, they’ll appreciate it, because 99% of people just won’t bother, and it’s really a much tougher gig than most people think.

In a world where people can make six figure salaries hawking insurance, it only seems right that a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

[Ian: Shut the fuck up man!]

…should be able to make a few quid playing the musical equivalent of seeing a pretty girl in a summer dress.  It may only last a moment, but on these sad, grey streets, it’s still gotta be worth something.

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