My Queen St spot has little charm and, although there's a steady stream of Auckland's beautiful people, I have a feeling it's going to be one of those days.
I strap on the guitar and suppress that little voice of experience in my head that whispers "you know what they want ... give them what they want". I shudder with the knowledge, shake my head in defiance and tear into a rendition of the Ramones classic The KKK Took My Baby Away, a pop masterpiece and sure to raise a smile and earn a golden token of appreciation. Surely.
No dice. Or coins, even. I'm enjoying the chance to sing for an hour though as I need to get fit for the tour, so while I butcher a selection of my favourite tracks I'm having a good time.
But still that voice is in my head, repeating over and over the awful truth of the buskers' art, that thing I know to be true. I refuse to give in and choose instead to play a Bowie number.
Aha. A real prospect now as half a dozen young mums, each toting a pushchair that looks built for scaling Everest, gather in my alcove and regroup after what must have been a trying expedition across the intersection. They seem friendly, smiling and chatting and, as one of the babies begins to cry, I pull out the ace ... Surrender by Cheap Trick.
My kids love it, and this little one is not immune to that classic chorus "Mommy's Alright! Daddy's Alright! They just seem a little weeeeirrd". He breaks into a smile and remains transfixed for the entire 20 minutes that they stand there, bouncing their babies up and down to the beat, smiling at me, at each other.
Then, just like that, they turn their pushchairs downhill and slide away without even a nod of appreciation, let alone a paltry coin. I feel aggrieved but I know what I should have played. That song I shall never play again, regardless of its mystical abilities when it comes to drawing in financial reward on the lonely street.
For the terrible truth is, no matter how brilliantly, how passionately, how sincerely you can perform any number of incredible songs from amazing artists when it comes to busking the public can never compete with even the most lacklustre chorus of American Pie. This I know to be true, but I can't do it.
I vow to make up the difference with my own donation to the City Mission, bash out a final version of my best Ramones tune and leave the area, my dignity intact. Well, almost intact. A beggar who has been next to me for the hour pulls out $5 and taunts me with it before shuffling off up the street laughing to himself.
*Jimmy has been a professional musician for more than 15 years and has toured the world playing festivals to audiences of tens of thousands. His former band The D4 was the first NZ act to appear live on the Letterman show.
Luger Boa play their final shows at the Grand in Helensville on December 11 and finish at the Kings Arms, Newton on December 12. Presales through undertheradar.co.nz
Punters' verdict: $4.40
The Amateur: Bevan Hurley
Even after years of crooning, I'm still a bag of nerves. The pulse quickens, the heart thumps and the hands begin to shake - which is not at all helpful for trying to connect with the fretboard of a guitar.
I'm no stranger to live performance after playing bass in an original funk-rock band but I would rather slink at the back next to the drummer and leave the showboating to the singer and guitarist. I'd rather be heard and not seen.
But on a stool outside New World, in full gaze of Queen St's busy lunchtime crowd, there's nowhere to hide. I'm just 50-odd metres from where I'd normally be seated at my desk but a million miles out of my comfort zone.
Unplugged, I begin to blunder my way through a cover of Arctic Monkeys' Do I Wanna Know? The atrium's acoustics are quite good and, for a brief few seconds, passersby can hear me over the humdrum of street noise. My opening notes draw a few stunned glances, a few smiles. And just before the song is over, a 20-something student approaches and drops $2 into the hat.
Emboldened by the show of generosity, I move on to numbers from the Bobs - Dylan and Marley. The flow of tunes seems to be going okay, the flow of funds not so. A few foot-taps from passing school boys is as good as it gets, but at least my hands have stopped shaking.
The lunchtime crowd is far too absorbed in their smartphones or in step with the collective march to break their purposeful stride.
Sending out an SOS, I manage to murder a version of Message in a Bottle by The Police. A young tourist sidles up to take a picture and deposit a few silver coins in the hat. It's a stunning day and Sunny Afternoon by The Kinks raises the odd smile of recognition.
Song choice is tricky. The cheesiest tunes might get you a few extra dollars but the agony of belting out awful lyrics strips away a part of any musician's soul. Busking in Madrid in 2005, a late-night rendition of Pearl Jam's Better Man earned me and a friend a crisp blue 20 Euro note. I instead have a go at the Seattle supergroup's lesser known masterpiece Indifference - which seems appropriate, given the audience response.
Sensing my last chance to bump up the takings, I play an error-ridden Misirlou by Dick Dale & His Deltones, the theme from Pulp Fiction. A middle-aged businessman throws in a couple of coins and mumbles a few kind words. And with that, my time is up. A quick count reveals I've made $5.50 - the minimum wage clearly doesn't extend to musical beggars.
Having been coerced out of early busking retirement by the deputy editor, I admit it was great fun. But I won't be giving up the day job - some talents should remain hidden.
I can't pretend not to have noticed my slightly higher earnings in the busk-off - but I have to concede Lady Luck must have been shining on me. Having stayed to watch the opposition, Jimmy is a terrific musician and showed what performing is about. It was a privilege to "open" for a true Kiwi music legend.
*Bevan has been playing bass guitar for several years. His biggest solo gig has been "a handful of drunk colleagues" on a Thursday night at the Shakespeare pub.
Punters' verdict: $5.50
