It’s a Wednesday night in Philadelphia’s Old City. Hip thirty- something’s are roaming the streets in search of the perfect bar or restaurant as stiletto’s clap on the sidewalks and button-downs blow in the wind. Amongst the frequent honking of horns and laughter of young people, soft and distant notes of a trumpet sound in the breeze. The music bounces off the walls and echoes down the alleyways. The piercing metallic droning tells of sorrow, loss, struggle, and finally- triumph.
The trumpet noises are compliments of Gary Clinton, a short, squat, black, and recently tranquil man. Clinton’s been playing the trumpet since he was nine, and he’s been a fixture of the streets for thirteen years. He looks about sixty years old, although Clinton won’t admit his age. His gray hair, misty brown eyes, and distant stare are all indications of a long and arduous life.
Tonight Gary Clinton sits in front of a parking lot on Second Street across from the Spice Café. He plays as if he’s completely unaware of the people passing bye. He’s reciprocating the lack of attention considering he’s been long forsaken for the ever popular stomp-esque percussionists down the street. He is largely ignored, and he largely ignores everyone. Nevertheless, Gary Clinton looks up to follow the rear of an attractive woman every now and then. Gary is a relic, unappreciated in today’s world. He plays the trumpet simply for the sake of playing the trumpet, rather than changing his conduct to reel in the bucks. In other words, he keeps it real.
“It’s a survival situation, it’s about whoever donates,” he confidently explains. “It’s for food, bread, family, clothing, a piece of meat, undergarments.” The Gary Clinton of tonight is a changed Gary Clinton. A recently recovered alcoholic, he’s enjoying a very different life from the one he’s led before. Hailing from Delaware County, Clinton grew up in a troubled household and never finished high school. He taught himself how to play the trumpet and found his passion on the streets. Reluctant to discuss his personal life, Clinton would rather talk about his music and the lifestyle of a street musician. “Before- I was an alcoholic, I couldn’t stand the pain,” is all he will disclose about his mysterious past.
Playing music is a cathartic experience for Gary. “I play cuz I wanna play, I play cuz it’s a stress remover, and it’s an outlet.” This is what inspires him to come out to the streets almost every day, rain or shine. His love for music keeps him alive and young, and his newfound love for healthy living has given him a new perspective.
Yet, street performing is not all about the musician. Being a street musician is a double edged sword. It’s about not only being paid but giving as well. “I wanna touch them…I wanna ease their souls,” Gary says while soulfully shaking his head. Clinton’s quiet disposition and the mellowness of his trumpet certainly have soothing qualities. Mr. Clinton likes to think that his music has an upbeat effect on city living. “Music keeps the violence down. There’s a lot of violence in Philly.”
Despite the eminent dangers that he faces while sitting out on the street until late hours of the night with a fanny pack full of money, Gary Clinton continues to play all over the east coast. “Wind blowing, I’m a hyper-active guy,” Clinton says in a jazzy manner. His travels are a reflection of his philosophy on life. Since his alcoholism Gary has “found Jesus” and goes “wherever god wants [him] to go.” Like most street musicians, Gary seeks hotspots where there’s plenty of life and light on the street. He boasts of his travels by train to New York and Atlantic City. “Street musicians are wanderers, they move around, they follow the crowd,” says Clinton casually, as he pulls his golden trumpet back up to his mouth. He begins to play with his eyes closed, his neck bulging with impassioned effort.
Around the corner a sound of an entirely different nature resonates into the street. There’s a vibrant twanging, harmonious riffs, and notes being thrown to and fro across the space of the city. Someone hoots and hollers to the tune of “My Girl” as change clatters into a hat. Upon approaching, a handsome older man with dark skin and white hair is sitting on a fold out chair holding a fender electric on his lap. He is bold and self assured as he lures people towards him with questions like, “Hey buddy, do you know this one?” Or the quip that comes soon after, “Are you Jewish?” as he plays the Israeli national anthem. The brazen voice and steely guitar belong to Christopher Aloysius Steven Hall, a fifty five year old Philadelphia native who goes by Chris Hall for short.
“I play cuz I wanna play, I play cuz it’s a stress remover, and it’s an outlet.”
Although he’ been playing the guitar for about forty five years, he’s only been on the street for four. You would never know that he’d been a street performer for such a short time, he rakes in about three-hundred dollars on a Friday night. He attributes his success to a wide musical knowledge. “It’s pretty lucrative…the tourists are very generous, I can play anything from A-Z and it really increases your financial potential, let’s put it that way.” If it isn’t his chops, his success could certainly be credited to his outgoing personality, which makes for a truly interactive musical experience. Chris Hall is direct and he knows what he wants.
Don’t be fooled, Chris Hall isn’t a part of the street out of financial necessity. An intellectual and graduate of Temple University, he majored in accounting. The way in which he found himself playing for money on the street is an enterprising act of revolt against the ugliness of social order. “The whole society as far as a black man trying to make it…
I had great jobs, they were all discriminating, he explains with a surprisingly calm fluency. “I was like a token black, always able to make it up there with them but it was really like they needed me around just to show they had some sort of balance. But I found out they were really saying ‘well, you can be here but don’t expect too much more’ and I said see ya later…I just quit right then and there on the spot.” Ever since then he’s been working hard on his guitar skills while playing nightly to make some quick cash. He is a full time musician, and would rather make a living by his own rules than exist as what he considers a symbol for the limitations of discrimination.
“Of course if I didn’t have this [guitar] I’d have an Uzi. A lot of fuckers would be in trouble,” he jokes as he throws his head back laughing at himself. His sense of humor seems like a virtue which must have saved him from a lot of ruinous anger. Yet, all hardships aside, Chris Hall seems like a happy man. He laughs a lot, the tourists seem to adore him, and quite often he goes home with wads full of cash. He speaks fondly of his two children, both grown and making their own livings. He’s young at heart with a quick tongue and he lives without fear of it. It must also be said that he is quite a ladies man. When a beautiful woman walks by he croons to her as her thankful male companion drops a five into his hat. Yes, Chris Hall knows how to make money and he isn’t bashful about it at all. “My goal is to meet a million people and ask them for a buck. It’s an ambition, its never ending, it goes on and on and on,” as he bobs his head to “Blackbird.”
“Blackbird singin in the dead of night, oh take these broken wings and learn to fly,” he sings gently as his hands travel up and down the neck of his guitar. These words seem suddenly relevant. They’re a reminder that although they seem so different, both Chris Hall and Gary Clinton could not be more alike. They both struggle for liberation whether it is from themselves or society. It is ultimately through music that they define who they are, and they have chosen the authenticity of the street, the unfiltered public with all of its harsh honesty and pulsating splendor to express themselves. Last but not least, they are both soloists of the street; men of the crowd but still very much alone.
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July 29th, 2006 at 11:47 am
well done leah