Nowhere but Up (16 page)

There was only one genre of music we both agreed on—R&B. When I was pregnant and while Justin grew up, I listened to Boyz II Men all the time. Justin became a huge fan of the band. He listened to Boyz II Men on repeat, memorizing every word and mimicking all the riffs and runs. Today Justin credits this band with inspiring him and teaching him how to sing.

We often took trips to visit my friends in Toronto, an hour and a half away. We loved walking around downtown and listening to the street musicians. On each trip we took, we had my friend Nathan accompany us. We didn’t know the streets of Toronto as well as our hometown, and having Nathan around always made me feel safe.

I remember our first trip, when Justin was six. He took his djembe with him, ready to jam with one of my friends later that day. As we walked around the city, I couldn’t stop staring at Justin’s face. He lit up as he marveled at the sights and sounds of the city, the noisy mesh of car horns and buses and the hustle and bustle of people scurrying by. He looked up at the skyscrapers, astonished at how they towered over us.

He even got his first taste of playing in front of a crowd. We stopped to listen to a street musician. Justin sat down next to him for a few minutes and pounded away in perfect time on his djembe. He wasn’t there long. But that tiny nibble was enough to make Justin want to come back to the city, just for the opportunity to play music on the streets.

Sure enough, not long after that first trip, Justin asked if we could take a trip to Toronto to play. Of course we could. We drove down to the city, picking up our never-ending tug-of-war about what we would listen to. As we walked around downtown, we noticed the
Speaker’s Corner
booth in our coming path. It looked like an early version of a kiosk that sells subway or bus tickets. For only a few dollars, you could get a few minutes of recording time to rant, rave, sing, dance, or do pretty much whatever you wanted to do that was legal and not vulgar. The most entertaining videos were aired on the
Speaker’s Corner
television show.

The booth attracted all sorts of people. Groups of friends who’d had one too many would stumble in front of the camera and slur their way through a sloppy take of “Sweet Caroline” or “The Gambler.” Environmentalists would plug the importance of recycling. Political activists would protest a bill that had been passed.

I had an idea. I asked Justin if he wanted to sing a song and play his djembe on camera for TV. He grinned from ear to ear. “Yes!” he answered enthusiastically. As soon as the distinct beep sounded signaling the camera was rolling, Justin started pounding away on the drum. He stared directly into the camera and sang along to the beats he banged out. “My name is Justin.”
Ba dump bump bump.
“I’m six years old.”
Ba dump bump bump.
Two minutes passed and people started gathering around on the sidewalk. They elbowed each other and whispered how amazing this little boy was. Justin barely noticed the attention; he was so focused.

After the camera stopped recording, Justin walked out of the booth and continued his mini concert in front of a growing audience. Having watched street musicians, he knew what to do. He whipped off his baseball cap and threw it on the pavement in front of him, continuing to sing and play.

I have to be honest: though he was entertaining and amusing, a part of me was embarrassed. Sure, busking was common practice on the streets of downtown Toronto, but people still had a somewhat negative view of it. Some viewed it as begging or panhandling, certainly not things any parent should teach or encourage their child to do. But I shrugged it off. I didn’t care what people thought. Watching Justin go at it on the djembe made me smile. I simply enjoyed Justin’s first time busking, the first of many to come.

I want to be clear. I never made Justin busk; he didn’t even understand what busking was. He just wanted to entertain. And hey, if his playing inspired people to donate a few bucks, it was a bonus. I loved spending time with Justin this way because such a purity and innocence surrounded his playing. It was fun. He loved it. And I loved watching him. We giggled when he’d forget a word to a song. He’d encourage others who were watching him to sing along.

Justin wanted to busk all the time. While we couldn’t take weekly trips to Toronto because I didn’t have the extra gas money or the time, we spent many afternoons and nights in downtown Stratford, where the arts were welcomed with open arms. We loved going downtown. It’s postcard worthy. Old World historic buildings mingle with modern boutiques and coffee shops. Looming over the city with its massive size and unique architecture, the courthouse is one of the most magnificent in the entire province.

The Avon Theatre, Justin’s busking spot of choice, is nestled right in the heart of downtown and was always packed on weekends and weeknights. Locals and tourists watched performances like
Henry V
and
Romeo and Juliet
. Justin would sit on the theater steps strumming on a guitar that looked too big for him and singing his heart out. His sweet voice was powerful enough to reach adjoining blocks, making people curious about where the music was coming from. Like clockwork, crowds would quickly gather, and a seemingly endless stream of money would pour into the empty guitar case at his feet—piles of change, dollar bills, fives, sometimes even twenties.

I’d heard somewhere that busking without a license was illegal. I imagine because Justin was a little kid, nobody gave him a hard time. The Avon Theatre wasn’t the only place Justin played. We’d scout out the regular busking hot spots, respecting the buskers who had already claimed their territory and moving on to find an empty spot on another block.

Some of the buskers had it in for Justin. In fact, one older musician, after discovering Justin playing in a location he frequented, got unnecessarily angry with my son. To punish Justin for “stealing” his spot, the old man grabbed a fistful of cash out of Justin’s guitar case and took off running. Some guys in the crowd chased after him and caught him before he got away. They also gave him a very loud and very colorful reprimand for taking a little kid’s money.

Because Justin was young (and extremely talented, of course), the crowd tended to be more generous with him than with the older buskers. People would toss ten- and even twenty-dollar bills Justin’s way. He probably made thousands of dollars playing music on the streets. In one summer alone, he made enough money to buy us a vacation to Disney World. We had never before been on vacation, so when Justin suggested using his earnings to take that trip, I was flabbergasted. Of course I said yes!

I loved watching Justin perform. For about two hours, he’d sing all sorts of songs—worship songs, pop songs, and ones he made up days earlier or even on the spot. He was so confident, bellowing out tunes as if he’d been performing his whole life. It was fascinating watching a crowd of people mesmerized by my little boy. I was so proud.

Justin begged me to take more trips to Toronto, where he clutched his djembe and guitar as we roamed the streets. Justin was in his glory when he performed in front of random strangers. He had a playful energy that attracted people, young and old. Street musicians in their twenties would shake their heads at this miniature musical genius. They’d pass by with their tattered clothes and greasy hair and throw a few bills his way. Many times they would even give him their last dollar and in return make him promise to keep on playing his music and never give up.

One of my favorite memories is of one particular trip to Toronto when Justin was nine years old. We were walking around downtown, with our faithful escort Nathan, when something on a street corner caught Justin’s eye. There on the sidewalk were two beat-up drum sets. A pail sat in the middle of the two instruments with two pair of drumsticks sticking out the top. A sign leaning against one of the tattered-looking bass drums proclaimed in bold black letters, “Pay $2 and play the drums with us!” Two twentysomething musicians were chatting with a passerby who had just thrown two bucks into the pail. When he started jamming with one of the musicians, Justin’s eyes opened even wider. I knew what was coming.

When the jam session was over, Justin tugged at my arm. “Mom, can I play with them? Please? I’ll even use my own money.” How could I say no?

Justin practically threw down the guitar and djembe he had been carrying. He dumped two dollars in the bucket and picked up a pair of drumsticks. One of the musicians came over to him and tousled his hair. “How ya doin’, little buddy?” I’m sure that just like Justin’s first drum teacher, Lee Weber, he was expecting Justin to bang on the thing without rhyme or reason. The other musician stood a few feet away, puffing on a cigarette. Leaning against a lamppost, he smiled and waved to us.

Justin and the first guy hopped on their stools. Justin was chomping at the bit, drumsticks in hand, his feet tapping the concrete in anticipation.

“You ready, buddy?” the drummer called out. “Here we go. A one, a two, a one two three.”

The guy started playing a rhythm. My son joined in on the offbeat, coloring the beats and complementing the rhythms. It was pretty impressive, another display of Justin’s impeccable musical timing.

The drummer couldn’t believe his ears. He shook his head in disbelief and whistled, “Holy smokes!” (except he used a more colorful word). He finally realized how good Justin was and started following his lead. The two of them jammed away, banging out contagious rhythms that you couldn’t help but tap your feet to. The cacophony of the Toronto city streets was no match for these two drummers. It was like the entire block was on mute except for a little boy and a young musician battling it out on drum sets that had seen better days.

The other musician who had been taking a break started grooving. “Yeah, man,” he yelled and slapped his thighs to the beat. Then he grabbed the empty pail and whipped a pair of drumsticks out of his back jeans pocket. Kneeling down on the pavement, he started banging on the plastic pail, complementing and adding a unique sound to the drums.

The three of them were amazing. Sticks were flying so fast they looked invisible. The passionate beats were flawless. The energy was palpable. It wasn’t about a mere street performance anymore. The three musicians had surpassed showing off their skills to get a few bucks. The drums became extensions of their hands. Justin was engrossed in the rhythms. I looked at him and smiled. He was having the time of his life. This was Justin in his element.

As the sidewalk started swarming with passersby gathering around this musical trio, the energy grew. I stood shoulder to shoulder with people, barely able to move. People started grooving, bobbing their heads in time with the music. No one looked hurried, a strange sight in a big city. It was as if everyone had all the time in the world.

Just when I thought this rare musical performance couldn’t get any better, the guy pounding on the pail swiftly jumped up on a streetlight. He started banging away at the top with his drumsticks. The sound is still etched in my mind.
Tink-tat-tink-tink-tat-tink-tink-tink.
Justin stared at the lonely pail on the sidewalk, and in the middle of playing, he jumped off the drum set and started playing on the pail.

His face lit up. He had never before played the pail, but he had no trouble following along and creating his own beats.

As the crowd cheered, a group of teenagers cleared a circle in the middle of the mob. They started breakdancing, spinning on their heads and doing flips. As Justin played the bucket, he couldn’t stop staring at the dancers. He dropped the drumsticks on the sidewalk and made his way to the dancer’s circle. He whipped off his sweater as he walked, and the crowd cried out, “Ooooh!”
Oh no you didn’t!

Justin busted out some moves that he had just learned from my friend Nathan. A natural performer, he egged on the young people that surrounded him by throwing his hands in the air, asking them if they wanted more. The crowd whooped and whistled.

After a few minutes, I could tell Justin was done. His attention span was running out. Sure enough, Justin looked at me and nodded his head. I knew it was time to go. By that time, there was so much activity going on between the drumming, the beats, and the dancing, it was easy for us to slip away almost unnoticed.

Justin’s eyes were glowing. I could practically hear his heartbeat pounding wildly through his soaked T-shirt. “Mom, that was amazing!” he exclaimed, his face on fire from the adrenaline racing in his veins.

As we started walking away from the crowd, two older, raggedy-looking men started yelling at us, trying to grab our attention. Wearing mismatched layers of clothes covered with holes and sporting dirty, disheveled beards that hadn’t seen a razor in what looked like months, the men appeared to be homeless. They yelled over the boisterous mob, “We gave the boy two dollars. It was all we had. He was great!” I was moved. I knew this was money they had earned panhandling.

One of them pointed to the guitar Justin had slung over his shoulder. “Can you play that?”

Justin and I nodded, still making our way through the crowd. I squeezed Justin’s hand a little tighter and grabbed ahold of Nathan.

The two men continued to follow us as we walked. One of them shouted again, “Can we hear you play?” Justin nodded, and we motioned for them to follow us. If Nathan hadn’t been with us, I wouldn’t have entertained their request. It certainly wasn’t something I made a habit of either.

The five of us walked farther down the block. As we neared the other end of the block, we could still hear the distant melodies of drums, pail, and lamppost. Justin got comfortable on the curb and carefully nestled the guitar on his lap. The two men beamed in delight, smelling like they hadn’t showered in days. Justin wasn’t fazed by their body odor or their dirty clothes. He was just happy he could make them smile.

The men crouched down on the empty street in front of Justin, anxious to hear a private concert. I heard Justin play the familiar chords of a song we sang in church. I was surprised that out of all the songs he could have chosen, from rock ’n’ roll riffs to soulful tunes, Justin played that particular one. With a passion that was different from the way he’d played the drums and pail just minutes earlier, he started singing “Waves of Grace” from the depths of his heart.