He set up his giant boombox, with loud and full orchestral backing tapes. About 10 metres away. Straight into Nessun Dorma. And, true enough, no-one could have slept through that din.
Didn't you see me . . . ? I asked him when he'd quit the histrionics.
I was here last week, he said.
To argue or not to argue. I've been coming here for seven years. But he was here last week, and I - for once - wasn't, so it's his pitch now.
A soupçon of applause from the café al fresco crowd followed each of his overwrought offerings. This, after all, is real music, and who can resist an opportunity to show that we are discerning enough to appreciate classical crossover with a musical theatre twist . . . ?
But indifferent silence greets Blind Boy Fuller.
A man passed me, making a great show of sticking his fingers in his ears, so as not to be abused and traumatised by my punk version of Mr Tambourine Man.
I looked at Miss Lotte Lenya, lying beside me on her rug. Is it all over for us? I asked her.
A middle-aged woman brought a carton of coffee over to the real musician. Real class . . . ! I heard her enthuse.
That long black cloud is coming down. I don't own a Kalashnikov, but if I did . . .
Didn't you see me . . . ? I asked him when he'd quit the histrionics.
I was here last week, he said.
To argue or not to argue. I've been coming here for seven years. But he was here last week, and I - for once - wasn't, so it's his pitch now.
A soupçon of applause from the café al fresco crowd followed each of his overwrought offerings. This, after all, is real music, and who can resist an opportunity to show that we are discerning enough to appreciate classical crossover with a musical theatre twist . . . ?
But indifferent silence greets Blind Boy Fuller.
A man passed me, making a great show of sticking his fingers in his ears, so as not to be abused and traumatised by my punk version of Mr Tambourine Man.
I looked at Miss Lotte Lenya, lying beside me on her rug. Is it all over for us? I asked her.
Lotte sat up and put a front paw on my knee, not in a show of solidarity, but because this is how she indicates it's treat time.
A middle-aged woman brought a carton of coffee over to the real musician. Real class . . . ! I heard her enthuse.
That long black cloud is coming down. I don't own a Kalashnikov, but if I did . . .
⏩Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast ... when he can get a pitch.
There is definitely a memoir in these stories.
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