Philip Seagram shivers as he plucks the strings on his guitar.
It's November in Toronto, and a poor day to be doing so outside in the city. A hail storm pelts the streets and pushes pedestrians from downtown sidewalks to the safety of TTC stations. Few linger outside if they have warmer places to be.
But on Yonge Street, Seagram has chosen to stand and play his songs. No one stops to listen, except one woman who asks what it is he thinks he's doing. In that moment, he wasn't entirely sure either.
“I think singing, especially singing your own songs, is a very vulnerable thing," he says. "It's like a poet going out and saying, 'Here's what I think, here's what I feel. Does anybody out there care about this? I don't know whether it's going to resonate with anybody.'”
The Nelson resident's debut as a busker was during a 2021 family trip. It was mostly a miserable experience, but not enough to deter Seagram from trying again.
The following April he set out on an eight-week, cross-Canada busking trip Seagram documents in his debut book No Judgment, And Other Busking Stories, which was released March 21. The memoir is an outsider's perspective on the daily experience of busking, how people interact with music, and a unique look at how Canadians give and receive charity.
Only five months prior to his Toronto visit, Seagram was serving his last days as a provincial court judge in Nelson. He surprised colleagues by retiring early, and grew annoyed by questions about his exit that he couldn't necessarily answer except perhaps to say that, at nearly 60, he felt as though life was passing him by.
Seagram's wife Dana had encouraged him to join her choir about a decade earlier. He immediately loved it, and after the choir ended Seagram kept singing with some of its members who formed their own band. He taught himself ukulele, then banjo and guitar, and started writing songs, which he describes as "this kind of really strange miracle."
It was during the COVID-19 pandemic that Seagram reassessed his priorities. He enjoyed being a judge, but was now an empty nester who longed to explore his artistic side. Music, not the legal profession, had become his passion.
Seagram also had a travel itch. He grew up in Montreal and practiced law in Vancouver before moving to Nelson, but felt as though he hadn't really experienced Canada.
“I thought about my father, and when he passed away what he left on the table. There were a number of other friends and acquaintances who died well before they thought they were going to die, and they had plans and projects and things too, and it's just this really stark reminder that you actually don't know how much time you've got.”
Seagram packed his 2008 Honda Fit in the spring of 2022 and set off alone for Victoria. His plan was to cross the country and busk in both small and big cities as well as in a variety of places.
In the book, Seagram writes about performing in tourist areas as well as lonely streets, for business people and those down on their luck. Locations, he learned, were important. On Granville Island, tourists stop to listen and expect to be entertained. In Lethbridge, Alta., Seagram played two hours on an empty street. His only company was a construction worker who took pity on him.
Seagram didn't mind. In a busy Montreal metro station, he's initially confused by how a crowd ignored him. It's only when he started singing for his own entertainment that he drew in listeners.
“Sometimes you really are just playing for yourself. Nobody's listening, or there's hardly anybody going by. At that point you say, ‘I’m going to enjoy this music, and I'm going to play it as beautifully as I can and just create something. And it doesn't matter if it's not heard, I'm just going to send it out there.’”
As he travelled, Seagram learned more lessons. Listeners responded more to covers than originals — one of the book's highlights is a scene in which Seagram is asked to cover the standard "Wagon Wheel," a song he is annoyed by but soon changes his tune on.
A moment of connection, even brief eye contact, becomes a worthwhile reward, and Seagram was especially grateful for listeners who complimented his own songs.
Seagram also treated the trip as a fundraiser for Red Cross in the weeks following the start of the Russia-Ukraine war. He didn't need money, so he carried a sign that asked for donations but also offered passersby to give what they want and take, without judgment, what they need.
The sign confused people, who didn't expect a busker to be giving money back. One woman asked for exactly $4, which Seagram encouraged her to take. A man in Toronto requested just $2, but seemed torn and eventually returned the money.
These sheepish exchanges punctuation Seagram's book. Is there a stigma attached to asking for charity? Is it unique to Canada's culture? Approaching a stranger for help, Seagram concluded, is likely just a little unnatural.
(Seagram, it should be added, took pains to get busking licenses before performing and also worked to not take possible revenue away from any buskers who depend on it as their livelihood.)
Even if no money was exchanged, Seagram still found value in the act of playing music publicly. With his trip finished and book published, Seagram is no longer busking, but he has a new appreciation for those who do.
“I think it should be supported because it lends so much to the street. It’s voluntary, like you don't have to leave money, you don't have to participate, you don't have to listen, you don't have to do anything. It's like a vendor who's just offering something that they care about, something that they've crafted.”
