By Michael Corrigan

There’s a plaque on a Galway building that reads: John Massacre Doran, 1976-2003. Doran died in a car crash but the City of Galway didn’t commission the commemorative plaque. It was created by Doran’s fellow buskers or street performers. The plaque on High Street faces the lively Tig Coili Pub (Irish for House of Coili pronounced "Chee Coli"). 

Though this pub features Celtic music at 6 and 9 p.m., it is the music of the buskers that a tourist hears everywhere walking the narrow medieval streets. Most of the buskers are musicians, but there are jugglers, escape artists and a puppeteer in dark glasses known as John Paul or "JP." The buskers seem to have few family ties, no permanent addresses, no bank accounts or mortgages, though many carry mobile phones.

The buskers travel from festival to festival and Galway City with its tourists provides a rich source of revenue. Each musician picks a street corner, puts out a hat for coins, and starts playing. One can hear everything from traditional Irish songs to Bob Dylan classics. On one corner, two French musicians play the music of Django Reinhardt note for note. A group of drummers liven up the plaza one evening, and at the intersection of High Street, JP runs his puppet through the crowd, climbing the legs of startled laughing spectators. These street performers provide added color and a soundtrack to the beautiful city of Galway.

If the buskers are unique in their freedom from middle class society, they do have their own tight community and support one another. One guitarist left the area and donated his guitar to another musician. The buskers share busy locations, and many of them don’t play more than three hours. This gives another busker a chance at making a few euros. A good busker with luck can make 100 euros an hour, but most average 25 to 50 euros an hour. Because of the often cold Irish weather, many of the guitarists wear fingerless gloves.

Jamie McDonald, a young guitarist with red hair and beard and a lyrical singing voice, wouldn’t answer the question of money directly but suggested that he made enough to keep himself "well fed and watered." One night he did a stirring version of Dylan’s "Like a Rolling Stone," while passing crowds echoed the chorus: "How does it feel/to be on your own/ no direction home/ a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?" The image of rolling stones with "no direction home" fits the buskers.

Not all the Galway buskers are Irish. Emily Mure is an American busker from New York who plays a small backpacker’s guitar. She sings in a clear voice and does many originals. Another busker named Rich is from Australia. He has a small microphone and includes a few American classics by John Fogerty. JP is from Florida and knows how to read a crowd. His heavy, jester-like puppet seems to possess its own life, and occasionally will dance to Jamie’s guitar when they work together.

Most of the buskers are young, except for one Irish traditional singer and Damian, a homeless man who travels with his dog, Thorn. Damian has seen many years on the street and picks though his coins at the end of each night, throwing away the smaller ones. For some buskers, this shows ingratitude toward the tourists. 

In the late afternoon, Jamie and JP sat outside the Tig Coili with other buskers and "Galwegians" to drink and prepare for a night of pub hopping. There are many colorful pubs in Galway; all of them have music, and all of them are packed.

"To be a busker, you just have to cut all ties," JP said. "I left Florida long ago. I’ve been to Paris, which is a cut-throat town for competition, and Barcelona which has a problem with thieves. One day, some kids stole my cap with the money."

"Did that make you want to quit?"

JP seemed a little annoyed, "You don’t understand busking. This is what we do. We travel, we perform, we play."

"Some move on from performing," Jamie said. "But I love the music. Denmark is a great place to play," he added. "I’m going to try Grattan Street in Dublin, tomorrow."

A round of pints with shots came. Stories were told. Anyone unaccustomed to heavy drinking, paying for a round of drinks, or unable to tell wild stories will not last long with the buskers. They resembled Hemingway’s rootless café society in The Sun Also Rises, though without the despair.

"All of you speak a lot of languages?"

JP nodded, not wanting to answer. "Maybe."

"I am fluent in Irish," Jamie said.

Later, JP spoke German to a passing tourist from Switzerland. If the buskers are an outgoing tribe of troubadours, they ultimately resented too many questions.

"Don’t act like a journalist. You’re with mates, here. Just observe and listen," JP said.

Watching other performers, it was easy to spot which busker could hold the passing crowds and who couldn’t. Standing beneath the Doran plaque, a middle-aged man with thick curly blond hair began playing a distorted fuzz-tone electric guitar.

"He’s good until he has too many drinks and then his leads don’t make sense," Jamie said.

This became apparent as the night progressed. Another round came and Rich voiced a complaint.

"I hate it when hecklers say, "’Get a job.’ I scream back, ‘Get a life.’"

"You have a job. You’re a busker," Jamie told him. "I ignore hecklers unless they touch me. I won’t tolerate that."

They began to discuss a legendary busker named Derek who was returning to Galway, soon. He had recently climbed Everest drunk and without training. He would out-perform all of them.

"Derek is the only man I know who can fall up a wall," a young drummer said.

That night, the group visited Sheridan’s wine bar to hear a lively Celtic fiddle band, and then after hours, visited the Roisin Dubh (pronounced "Roosen Dove," meaning "Dark Rose" in Irish). This pub has a wide dance floor and a stage for popular touring groups. Crowds of young people packed the outer bar. Over a pint, Jamie asked a question. "Do you play?"

"Guitar, yes."

"You might consider being a busker yourself."

"I like a steady paycheck and health insurance," I said.

Jamie seemed to understand.

When I left Galway early the next morning, the streets were empty. Trucks would soon roll in to deliver supplies to shops and then leave by 11 a.m. Then the buskers would find corners and serenade pedestrians as they waked from Eyre Square to the River Corrib flowing into Galway Bay.