I can’t remember the first time I ever heard the phrase, “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission.” If you search famous quotations, you will find this quote is attributed to Grace Hopper— an amazing woman who was a U.S. Navy Rear Admiral and a computer programmer—born in 1906. An amazing woman, Grace Hopper is perhaps a topic for another column.
This week, I just want to steal her famous catchphrase. Because that is what keeps coming to mind as the Grand Marais Park Board and the community debates whether or not musicians should be able to park on a bench downtown to sing for their supper.
The hullabaloo started when a local musician approached the Park Board, seeking permission to play his guitar and sing in Harbor Park in downtown Grand Marais. An easy request one would think. Isn’t this done in cities and towns all around the world?
The answer is a resounding yes. I’ve been incredibly fortunate and have been able to visit some of the world’s most interesting and beautiful cities—San Francisco, Washington D.C., Seattle, Chicago, London, Paris and Prague. There are a things all of these wonderful cities have in common—amazing architecture, delicious regional dishes, great museums—and entertainment in the streets. Not just musicians. No, all of these cities had not only musicians, but kids hawking T-shirts, trinket salesmen, hot dog or crepe sellers, mimes, jugglers—even fire-eaters!
I’ve always enjoyed watching and listening to the people endeavoring to entertain the public. Impromptu concerts on the street have always impressed me. When I think of street singers, some very special moments come to mind.
I remember a rainy afternoon in Paris, waiting in a long line of tourists to enter the Louvre museum. It was incredible just to be there, but then, from a marble arch across the street, a bagpiper began to play. I don’t remember the song, but I do remember that the sound was an absolutely perfect soundtrack for our Parisian adventure.
Then, a few years later, on another adventure our family wandered the streets of Prague, marveling at a palace and the bridges over the river. We were a bit nervous about being out as dusk turned into dark and we hurried to get back to our rented rooms—when suddenly the strains of a violin drifted through the air. Again, under a marble archway, a musician played. Again, I don’t remember the song, but the beauty of the music has remained.
There have been other cities and other songs—a grassroots banjo player at the line for streetcars in San Francisco and a blues singer outside Union Station in Chicago.
All have added to the ambiance of the city—including a day in downtown Grand Marais a few years ago. I don’t know who was playing or even where he was, but on a sunny summer day as I enjoyed walking through town, I heard the poignant music of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I was on an errand, so I didn’t have time to find the musician and drop some coins in his guitar case or cap, but I did pause and breathe in the moment.
What a perfect song to hear next to Lake Superior. No concert hall could offer a more meaningful stage.
So, I don’t agree that it is a big deal if a Cook County musician wants to strum his or her guitar and sing on the waterfront. It’s a shame that this has been passed on to the Cook County Visitors Bureau or some other committee. It will now probably take months to develop a policy to determine who will be allowed to play and when. Perhaps longer—whatever happened to the plan to establish an Arts Commission to decide what sort of art or flagpole or bench can be built in Harbor Park? Nothing.
I hope the same thing doesn’t happen with singing downtown. I’d like to hear acoustic music along with the sounds of the waves again.
To my musician friends, I say go for it. Open your case or set out a jar and play your flute or mandolin or guitar. Sing songs about the lake or about civil disobedience. Maybe someone could set Grace Hopper’s words to music—“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission.” Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life. Berthold Auerbach
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