_busk·er noun \ˈbəs-kər\
: a person who entertains in a public place for donations
I can never pass a busking musician without stopping to listen, if only for a few measures or so. Something about the raw performance gets me.
I was wandering Harvard Square yesterday. Ever so faintly, I heard what sounded like Bob Dylan's Knockin' on Heaven's Door. I needed to grab the train, but I couldn't keep myself from stalking out the source. I immediately hit RECORD on my iPhone (yes, it is still an all-consuming love affair with that thing) and followed the sound. I happened upon this musician on Brattle Street and sat down to listen to the end of the Dylan cover. I sat there while he tuned his guitar; listened to the clamber of the weekend bus shuttle service behind me.
And just like that, like manna from heaven, my divinely-appointed busker began to sing Simon and Garfunkel's I am a Rock. I am wholly convinced that he sang it just for me. It was such a poignant, painful and perfectly-positioned moment in time. And it is all captured
I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock. I am an island.
THE SUNDAY SOUND: November 27, I am a rock. I am an island.
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