Page 111 of Playing By Ear

“Dewar statue’s open!” Jamie sped up, and Perry nearly toppled over, letting go of his partner’s elbow just in time to avoid a face-plant on the Buchanan Street paving stones. “Och, sorry!”

“Go and stake it out.” Perry unfolded his cane. “I’ll find my way to a seat.”

“Thanks. Sorry.” Jamie’s rattling trolley sped away.

It truly was good fortune to get this spot at the top of Buchanan Street, a spot that was maybe the best busking pitch in all Glasgow. And on such a beautiful Sunday.

Perry went to the wide, semicircular steps of the Royal Concert Hall and settled onto the lowest stair beside one of the banisters. The pale concrete beneath him was properly sun-baked, and he pressed both his palms against the stair to absorb the warmth. Based on the volume of chatter and the way the sound was absorbed, the area seemed crammed out with pedestrians enjoying the fine spring weather.

Perhaps a good session would lighten Jamie’s mood. In the week since the surprise day trip with his father to the Trossachs, he’d been quieter than usual. At least once a day, Perry sensed that Jamie was mustering the courage to say something huge. There’d be a suspenseful silence followed by a small, sharp intake of breath. A pause…

Then, sometimes a joke or wry observation. Sometimes nothing at all. The inability to read Jamie’s expression—without looming awkwardly close—was feeding Perry’s insecurities.

“Hey-o,” Jamie said into the mic. “I’m Jamie, and this lovely lass is Lisa.” He strummed the purple guitar. “I’ve a wee tradition of starting my Sunday sets with local heroes. So how about the Vaselines?”

He launched into the opening chords of “Son of a Gun,” and instantly the crowd was clapping along. With the amphitheater-like arrangement of the Royal Hall steps, it felt more like a concert than a busking session.

Jamie finished with a flourish, and the audience whistled and applauded. A young-sounding man on Perry’s left hooted with hands cupped around his mouth. “Oi, Jamie! Do ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’!” His voice dropped to conversation level. “He does a brilliant cover.”

Perry opened his mouth to respond, then shut it, in case the man wasn’t talking to him.

“On acoustic?” asked a woman next to Jamie’s fan, rustling what might have been a packet of crisps. “That’s impossible.”

“Not for Jamie,” the lad said. “He does a Glaswegian version with local gangster references. That way it’s not, like, cultural appreciation.”

His friend laughed. “Ryan, I think you mean appropriation.”

“If you say so.” Ryan called out the request again, louder.

“Heard you the first time, mate,” Jamie said. “Sorry, not today.” Perry wondered whether the others could hear the faint note of melancholy in Jamie’s voice. “If your lovely friend there has a request…”

“Can you do ‘Cheap Thrills’?” asked the woman with the crisps.

“I just perfected it last week.” Jamie tuned the guitar for a few moments, then played the opening chords to Sia’s latest single. “Good one for dancing and singing along, if anyone fancies it.”

Perry’s worries dissolved as the bouncy beat took hold and his body began to sway. Jamie added a funky drumbeat with his guitar-ringed thumb against the instrument’s body. The crowd shouted out the chorus on cue, the connection between them and Jamie like a hundred steel threads.

The set continued with a few new hits, followed by a string of popular eighties and nineties tunes to please the middle-aged listeners.

Then Jamie said, “Here’s a pair of early songs by a man we lost a few months ago, someone who can never be replaced.”

With a single plucked note, he began to sing David Bowie’s “Life on Mars.” He started strumming on the second bar, the guitar slowly building as the song unfolded.

When Jamie’s voice reached the long, high, sustained note at the end of the chorus, then tumbled down perfectly on key, goosebumps rose on Perry’s arms.

Without pausing, Jamie transitioned into Bowie’s “Starman.” As they all sang along to the La las at the end, Perry felt part of one big heart, one that ached over the unfillable void Bowie had left behind.

As the applause faded, a man near Jamie shouted, “Gie’s some ‘Jimmy Mack,’ Jimmy Mack!”

“Dunno that one, pal.” From his tone, Jamie’s pal clearly meant the opposite of a pal.

“Aye, you do,” the man said. “By Martha and those Mandelas?”

“Sorry, no,” Jamie practically barked. Was he secretly anti-Motown? Seemed unlikely.

“Here, I’ll sing it,” the man crowed, “and maybe it’ll come back to you.” He caterwauled the chorus, clapping with no recognizable rhythm.

“State of this guy,” Ryan’s friend said. “Face of a stoat, and the voice of one too.”