I first became aware of “Amazing Grace” when Judy Collins had a hit with an acapella version in about 1971. I knew nothing about the song but I thought it was beautiful. I thought Judy Collins was beautiful too. I picked up the 45 as a cut-out for 30p. I daresay my mother was a bit surprised to hear a Christian hymn coming out of my bedroom as a change from T.Rex and The Beatles but she didn’t say anything.
Then it cropped up on Rod Stewart’s “Every Picture Tells A Story” album which I bought with my 12th birthday money. It was unexpected as it was uncredited on the sleeve. Rod sings it beautifully, to Ronnie Wood’s acoustic slide guitar. Thus it became part of my DNA as I played that album into the ground (as I’m sure did everyone who bought it).
Some years later, I had discovered the joys of the country blues and I heard Mississippi Fred McDowell doing it. I began to realise that there was a small sub-genre of the blues that was not Gospel but was religious (Christian) in subject matter. Sanctified blues. Lightnin’ Hopkins, taking a break from singing about women and gambling, would sing: “Jesus won’t you come by here, now is a needy time…” and it would stop me dead in my tracks every time. Blind Willie Johnson, the greatest slide guitar player ever recorded, dedicated every note he ever played to God – and lived a life and died a death so cruel it could have come straight from the Old Testament.
Fast forward many years and I was busking as usual when a nurse came by and asked me if I would be interested in playing for the local old folks home. There was no money but I was promised NHS coffee and as many biscuits as I could eat. So I said yes and we fixed up a time. I arrived, and just before I went in to play the nurse told me that all the people I was to be playing to had advanced Alzheimers. OK…
I started playing. They completely ignored me. I thought I should try and play something they might know. So I played “Amazing Grace”. Every one of them started singing along. The whole room was full of people in their 80s and 90s who had lost their marbles but could sing the first verse of “Amazing Grace”. And me. After awhile I stopped and tried to play something else. No. They carried on singing “Amazing Grace” and several of them started dancing and swaying about. The nurses were chuckling. I was chuckling. We had quite a time of it. I told this story to a Christian couple I know (they know who they are) and said it was “cool”.
“Yeah”, they laughed, “the Holy Spirit is cool”.
Most of my friends know I’ve been practicing Buddhism for 30 years or so but I feel that someone ought to play sanctified blues, even if it’s only me, and so I like to get up on a Sunday morning, if I’m able, put a suit on and go out and play a few sanctified melodies. Not too loud. I feel it would be hypocritical of me to sing them – but I sing a few words here and there, just to move the tune along. Today was interesting. I played “Amazing Grace” and a man stopped in front of me. He looked like a devil. He had very loud and expensive clothes and a dangerous look in his eye. He interrupted my playing.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“Amazing Grace”, I replied.
“No. That.” he said, pointing at my CD on my guitar case. “How much?”
“Eight quid”, I said.
“Will you do it for a fiver?”
“Do you have to knock me down?” I asked.
“Yes”, he said, pulling out a £20 note.
“I haven’t got change”, I said.
“I’ll get change”, he said. Five minutes later he returned with ten 50p coins. He handed them to me. I handed him a CD. “I like your music”, he said. Then he was gone.
After that, I carried on playing. The music came out almost without my thinking about it. It sounded exactly right. I’ve rarely had such an enchanted sound as I had today. As I felt pleased with myself I thought about how one must put one’s ego at the service of the music, instead of putting the music at the service of one’s ego, and about how difficult this is. About how the greatest musicians are essentially vessels through which music passes. Not with all music of course, but with certain kinds – like Blind Willie Johnson or J.S.Bach or Vilayat Khan. The high mountains of music where the air is clean but not that many people travel. This sounds incredibly pompous but in actual fact demands absolute humility. As I was thinking about all this, I was earning money. Or money was appearing. I couldn’t decide. So many things to think about. An Irishman waited patiently until I took a break. He introduced himself and asked if I gave lessons. I told him that I did and I gave him my card. He gave me a fifty pound note. Nobody has ever done that before in nine years of busking. “Put that on account”, he said, and went off to buy me a coffee.
It seemed I could see the condition of every soul who walked past me. I am not claiming for myself any special insight. Merely remarking that what is usually obscure to me seemed clear today. The children danced. The dogs barked. The Italian tourists ignored me. An Israeli lady stared at me for many minutes. We talked awhile. A Frenchman complimented my playing. The rain started. Then stopped. I will be gone from here soon. I will miss mornings like this.