Remembering 'Kenny' the busker

He was known as "Kenny" but his name was John Adams. He was a well-known street-performer; he worked along Wellington's Courtenay Place. And he died, on June 6, suffering from a brain tumour (see here).

"Kenny" was a local legend. The American-born Adams was a keen Christian and an eager entertainer. He busked, performing poetry and original songs - but his default setting was The Gambler. That, and his look, earned him his nickname.

When I first met him the movie Pulp Fiction was a hit - so we would throw in our coins at the end of an evening and request Neil Diamond's Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon. He would play it - often twice in a row, knowing he needed to satiate the stragglers who had tagged on to form a decent crowd midway through his first rendition. His voice struggling, his guitar hiccupping, burping and farting. The crowd that had gathered roaring with approval.

Adams was a crude musician - he fluffed chords, his single-string playing was an insult to the term rudimentary, his amplifier crying out in distorted pain. Even so, "Kenny", John Adams' creation, was a great entertainer.

He had people laughing with him, he had people laughing at him; drunken buffoons frolicked and mocked "Kenny's" waist-high kicks, copying him as best they could. He worked his crowd, a patient negotiator given his (relatively) sober status. He could keep a kebab-munching audience enthralled, earning a few coins while he was at it.

If you asked, there was a song list. He knew around 100 songs, well, he would have a stab at around 100 songs. He also knew poetry. He wrote his own and he would recite Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare. He knew Rudyard Kipling - I paid (more than once) to hear "Kenny's recitation of If. He could reel off by rote things he never wrote: passages from Hamlet and Othello, advice, psalms, prayers, prose and poems.

All the while he was managing the crowd.

A meathead might call out for an obscure request; a young girl would want a photograph, "Kenny" had a wax-figure grin for all occasions. It was chiselled into place; it always worked. It always won people over.

His amplifier was seized due to resident complaints, the council imposing a fine and taking his equipment. "Kenny" was stoic, a hipflask and a thermos his new tools of the trade - the guitar case empty, crying out for coins with a note explaining that "Kenny" couldn't play anymore (truth told, it was stretching the truth to suggest he ever could). He would still recite Kipling's If and other poems - but the real focus now was the endless quest of collecting signatures, aiming to get the amp back.

"Kenny" was part of the soundtrack of a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for so many of us as we did the Courtenay Shuffle, visiting the bars and clubs and pool-halls.

The first time I met the real John Adams - out of character, broad daylight, no leather jacket, no hat, no guitar case - it seemed a little strange. Imagine seeing Bruce Wayne at the drycleaners, a creased cape in need of a press.

John Adams asked if I would review his CD - he had recorded his poems. The CD was a burn with a cheap colour-photocopied cover. The CD's title? "Kenny".

I told him I'd think about it, I'd listen to it, sure.

Listening to it, I probably lasted two-three minutes at best, skipping tracks, chuckling somewhat - I wondered how I would ever write a review of this mess of words.

John Adams telephoned me within a few days. He'd changed his mind, he "would like the CD back". He had "done some research". He had "been reading" my reviews. He was sure that I "had been infected by the devil". The devil was "strong" in my work. "The devil is strong, son!"

He instructed me to return the CD to him immediately. He left his address and hung up the phone. I did.

On Monday I read that John Adams had died, taking "Kenny" with him.

He was my favourite busker. I hadn't thought about him in years.

Immediately, I thought about how he was able to do what one of the lines in his signature cover instructed. He knew how to hold 'em - his crowd, that is.

Do you have stories of seeing "Kenny"? Did you request songs or poems?

And if you never saw "Kenny" in action (or in inaction) - feel free to share your stories of your favourite musical busker/s.

Postscript: I always found it funny - once I'd learnt his real name - that "Kenny" was called John Adams, sharing his real name with the famous American composer.

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