Many years ago, a splash was made by a small, round troll of a comedian named Sam Kinison. I don’t know whether I ever saw him do a full stand-up routine, but his signature bit was part of the ambient environment at the time, an era which featured, among other things, the latest incarnation of the Ethiopian famine. “You live in a desert!” he bellowed (because bellowing was, apparently, his schtick). “Go where the food is!”
Moderately funny, in that willfully-geopoliticially-ignorant-I-laughed-but-don’t-tell-anybody sort of way, but a point could be extracted: it is, indeed, easier to find food when it’s right next to you. And, in fact, you can turn it on its head: food is where the people are. Which brings me to this week’s update: my experiences at the farmer’s markets.
The farmer’s market is the new hotness for folk musicians, as far as I can tell. The point of it is the same as the point of playing in the subway, or in Harvard Square: go where the people are. I actually went to the trouble of purchasing a street performer’s license for Cambridge this year, which I have never had the balls to use, but the farmer’s markets, on the other hand, somehow spoke to me. Or sang, I suppose.
So what did I learn, in my mini-tour of farmer’s markets? I have to say that in most cases it was a matter of relearning, in the way that the log seems to jump in random directions as you’re falling off of it. But there was one pearl, nestled among the oysters I pried open.
I’ll start with the pearl: three-year-olds will listen to anything. I’m not really used to being a novel experience for anyone, but those three-year-olds, man, they love me. I’m not exactly sure why; it’s not like my lyrics are particularly accessible to the average three-year-old experience. But more than once, frazzled mothers had to literally drag their children away from me, as they stared slack-jawed at my act (the kids, not the parents – or, at least, I was watching the kids, and I couldn’t tell you what the parents were thinking, besides “all I need is a pack of carrots and I can get out of this hellhole”). I’m not about to go all Dan Zanes on you as a result, but it was kind of interesting.
Something else I (re)learned was to come prepared for anything. For instance, at one of the farmer’s markets, we almost had no power for my amplifier because the organizer’s generator had been stolen. Granted, it’s hard to plan for that sort of thing; but you’ve got to be ready for it nonetheless.
But the main thing I learned was: going where the people are only takes you so far. People are busy. They have three-year-olds who are interfering with their overscheduled lives. They have music they like to listen to that doesn’t really require them to work. They have trouble multitasking – e.g., taking in music they’ve never heard while they’re choosing tomatoes. My expectations for the reception I’d receive at the farmer’s markets were low, and, indeed, they were met.
And therein lies the secret about why I’m not disappointed. Sure, I was pretty much roundly ignored by anyone with more than a kindergarten-level education; but then again, I didn’t really expect anyone to pay attention. And I went where the people were.
Maybe, next year, I’ll try playing in Harvard Square.