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Lucky Diamond, Lucky Covent Garden.
Lucky Diamond Rich
On Thursday 2nd March 2006 I was learning the ropes at Covent Garden. It was the coldest of days, my first time busking here and I was suffering a baptism, not of fire, (far from it) but the font had iced over. Someone had said the only way to crack Covent Garden was to go up there when it was cold and quiet and get to feel the lay of the land. Peppe had befriended me and I had been watching Ozzy and Phil and Matt and Charlie the 2nd.
I always assumed Covent Garden would be easy. I perform in rural towns and quiet sea fronts all the time, and I can usually muster something up, so Covent Garden, the Capital Plaza of English Street should be an easy stage... Hah ha! Well I'm learning.
I performed my first show at 11am in the North Hall for about 15 unattended kids on a school trip. I got a hat in which I had £3.00, 4 grapes, and empty red bull can, one nice apple and several small chocolate bars. Actually, I was chuffed, and Pepe was pleased for me too. I had done many things wrong, but I had really enjoyed it. And as Pepe said to another amused performer “He'll learn.”
Shortly afterwards Matt did a brilliant show with lots of energy. He worked harder than I had, built a healthy lunchtime crowd, yet he only made £1. One cocky schoolboy offered him a penny. Matt was furious and showed it. To the kids it was like being insulted by a top chef in a restaurant, the audience couldn't believe their luck as Matts Tantrum outshone his performance. He threw back the next pound to come in and packed up. I felt hurt for him.
By 3pm I was ready to take on the Plaza. “We're all great performers on a Saturday.” Shandy said as he surveyed the impossibly deserted market. Pepe had decided that it was too cold and frankly dead and he was going to give his slot a miss. So Charlie the 2nd and Phil attempted a freebie. They worked hard, they performed well, but despite mustering small crowd it soon dispersed as the weather took it's toll on the audience.
Then something happened which I can only compare to the moment Queen hit the stage at Live Aid in 1985. For those youngster who have never seen the video, after a days marathon of the worlds greatest rock bands the audience had tired and the atmosphere was waning, but Freddie and the boys went out there, took the gig by the scruff of the neck and reignited the event.
An aggressive blue man, with metal teeth, dressed in combat style clothing marched in and was very unhappy with the schedule. Phil was not only doing a freebie, he was on again after me for his original slot and Lucky Diamond Rich was having none of it. He strutted off to consult the definitive list and demanded that I follow him. So I did. He wanted a slot. He wanted a slot before it got dark. I gave him mine.
I gave him mine because I had worked hard, earned little and the cold was taking it's toll on my muscles and I simply could not be bothered to warm up again. Oh, and I have never seen Lucky perform before and I had heard much about him.
Well Lucky strutted around, his contempt for our low energy, our defeatism. “It's not dead!” He said dismissively as Pepe explained why Lucky could have as long as he like. And we all really beleived it was dead. There was nobody there. It was snowing lightly. It was darkening rapidly. It was bloody freezing.
Only those well beyond the far side of insanity would strip down to a tee shirt and a kilt for the sake of an empty expanse of cobbled history. And only somebody like that would walk out, take the plaza by the scruff of the neck and smash through the fortress walls of indifference which London had built to test us.
Lucky Diamond Rich barked at security and whined and complained about another performers amplifier being too loud. He simply does not give a shit about his fellow performer if you ask me.
But as soon as his headset was switched on; a soothing and charismatic blue angel with a smoothed over australian accent began to chirp hypnoticly. People stopped and looked. Lucky began re-arranging the furniture, the waste bins, the people. He talked to the street cleaners, the people on the balcony, and he spoke to them with the sincerest and most endearing respect. Those who stopped first did not have to wait long for their entertainment,(one of the faults with Covent Garden, the entertainers can steal our time building up a crowd on the promise of a show which is often very short when it finally arrives.) Luckily for us, Lucky has the patter. He coaxed us forward, joked with us, played with us and suddenly, within minutes there were more people around his arena than the rest of us combined had mustered all day.
I won't describe his show. What he did was perhaps generic, skilfull but common - yet he did it masterfully. He seized comic moments, quipped with the best timing I have seen in a long while. He then bottled, not at all aggressively, but bloody charmingly and very persuasively. He did his job and he performed his set superbly.
He took a healthy hat and packed up with a modest sense of achievement. What he left though were a tribe of hardened street performers who had previously felt defeated, yet now were lifted. He had strolled in, annoyed us and reminded us who we were, and why we were there. The crowds thereafter were bigger, the shows much more profitable. As I left Phil was in the north hall, happily entertaining an even larger crowd, and I drove home that night, inspired, chattering on the phone to my loved ones... Covent Garden - I'll be back next week, no matter how cold, I'll be there. I'm not expecting much, but I'm going to make something happen...
On Thursday 2nd March 2006 I was learning the ropes at Covent Garden. It was the coldest of days, my first time busking here and I was suffering a baptism, not of fire, (far from it) but the font had iced over. Someone had said the only way to crack Covent Garden was to go up there when it was cold and quiet and get to feel the lay of the land. Peppe had befriended me and I had been watching Ozzy and Phil and Matt and Charlie the 2nd.
I always assumed Covent Garden would be easy. I perform in rural towns and quiet sea fronts all the time, and I can usually muster something up, so Covent Garden, the Capital Plaza of English Street should be an easy stage... Hah ha! Well I'm learning.
I performed my first show at 11am in the North Hall for about 15 unattended kids on a school trip. I got a hat in which I had £3.00, 4 grapes, and empty red bull can, one nice apple and several small chocolate bars. Actually, I was chuffed, and Pepe was pleased for me too. I had done many things wrong, but I had really enjoyed it. And as Pepe said to another amused performer “He'll learn.”
Shortly afterwards Matt did a brilliant show with lots of energy. He worked harder than I had, built a healthy lunchtime crowd, yet he only made £1. One cocky schoolboy offered him a penny. Matt was furious and showed it. To the kids it was like being insulted by a top chef in a restaurant, the audience couldn't believe their luck as Matts Tantrum outshone his performance. He threw back the next pound to come in and packed up. I felt hurt for him.
By 3pm I was ready to take on the Plaza. “We're all great performers on a Saturday.” Shandy said as he surveyed the impossibly deserted market. Pepe had decided that it was too cold and frankly dead and he was going to give his slot a miss. So Charlie the 2nd and Phil attempted a freebie. They worked hard, they performed well, but despite mustering small crowd it soon dispersed as the weather took it's toll on the audience.
Then something happened which I can only compare to the moment Queen hit the stage at Live Aid in 1985. For those youngster who have never seen the video, after a days marathon of the worlds greatest rock bands the audience had tired and the atmosphere was waning, but Freddie and the boys went out there, took the gig by the scruff of the neck and reignited the event.
An aggressive blue man, with metal teeth, dressed in combat style clothing marched in and was very unhappy with the schedule. Phil was not only doing a freebie, he was on again after me for his original slot and Lucky Diamond Rich was having none of it. He strutted off to consult the definitive list and demanded that I follow him. So I did. He wanted a slot. He wanted a slot before it got dark. I gave him mine.
I gave him mine because I had worked hard, earned little and the cold was taking it's toll on my muscles and I simply could not be bothered to warm up again. Oh, and I have never seen Lucky perform before and I had heard much about him.
Well Lucky strutted around, his contempt for our low energy, our defeatism. “It's not dead!” He said dismissively as Pepe explained why Lucky could have as long as he like. And we all really beleived it was dead. There was nobody there. It was snowing lightly. It was darkening rapidly. It was bloody freezing.
Only those well beyond the far side of insanity would strip down to a tee shirt and a kilt for the sake of an empty expanse of cobbled history. And only somebody like that would walk out, take the plaza by the scruff of the neck and smash through the fortress walls of indifference which London had built to test us.
Lucky Diamond Rich barked at security and whined and complained about another performers amplifier being too loud. He simply does not give a shit about his fellow performer if you ask me.
But as soon as his headset was switched on; a soothing and charismatic blue angel with a smoothed over australian accent began to chirp hypnoticly. People stopped and looked. Lucky began re-arranging the furniture, the waste bins, the people. He talked to the street cleaners, the people on the balcony, and he spoke to them with the sincerest and most endearing respect. Those who stopped first did not have to wait long for their entertainment,(one of the faults with Covent Garden, the entertainers can steal our time building up a crowd on the promise of a show which is often very short when it finally arrives.) Luckily for us, Lucky has the patter. He coaxed us forward, joked with us, played with us and suddenly, within minutes there were more people around his arena than the rest of us combined had mustered all day.
I won't describe his show. What he did was perhaps generic, skilfull but common - yet he did it masterfully. He seized comic moments, quipped with the best timing I have seen in a long while. He then bottled, not at all aggressively, but bloody charmingly and very persuasively. He did his job and he performed his set superbly.
He took a healthy hat and packed up with a modest sense of achievement. What he left though were a tribe of hardened street performers who had previously felt defeated, yet now were lifted. He had strolled in, annoyed us and reminded us who we were, and why we were there. The crowds thereafter were bigger, the shows much more profitable. As I left Phil was in the north hall, happily entertaining an even larger crowd, and I drove home that night, inspired, chattering on the phone to my loved ones... Covent Garden - I'll be back next week, no matter how cold, I'll be there. I'm not expecting much, but I'm going to make something happen...
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