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had
    decals of bathing beauties stuck on it. We played at bars and art openings,
    and together we traveled cross-country and ended up playing on Telegraph
    Avenue in Berkeley. Busking, as it’s called in Britain. By this point we had a look, too—a variation on Old World immigrant, I guess is how you would
    describe it. Mark adopted a more Eastern European look, and I gravitated to
    old suits and fedoras. I had an unkempt beard at the time, and once a young
    black kid asked me if I was one of those people who didn’t ride in cars.
    We played mainly standards. I would sing “Pennies From Heaven” or
    “The Glory of Love” as well as our own arrangements of more contemporary
    fare, like “96 Tears.” Sometimes Mark would play an instrumental and I’d
    strike ridiculous poses—bent over standing on one leg and not moving, for
    example. Something that absolutely anyone would be able to do, but that
    I—or my “stage” persona—seemed to think was show-worthy. We realized
    that in a short amount of time we could amass enough cash to cover a meal
    and gas for an old car I’d picked up in Albuquerque. One might say that
    the reviews of a street performance were instant—people either stopped,
    watched, and maybe gave money, or they moved on. I think I also realized
    then that it was possible to mix ironic humor with sincerity in performance.
    Seeming opposites could coexist. Keeping these two in balance was a bit of
    a tightrope act, but it could be done.
    I’d seen only a few live pop-music shows by this point. At the time I still
    didn’t see myself making a career in music, but even so, the varied performing DAV I D BY R N E | 33
    styles in the shows I had seen must have made a strong impression. In high
    school around Baltimore, one could attend what were called Teen Centers,
    which were school gymnasiums where local bands would be brought in to play
    on weekends. One act was a choreographed Motown-style revue, and at one
    point they donned gloves that glowed in the dark when they switched to UV
    lights. It was a spectacular effect, though a little corny. Another act did a Sgt.
    Pepper–type revue, and to my young ears they sounded just like the records.
    Their technical expertise was amazing, but it wasn’t original, and so it wasn’t all that inspiring. Being a cover band, even a really good one, was limiting.
    It wasn’t only purist folk acts at the university coffee house. There were
    also rock bands, some of which had virtuosic musicians. Most would jam
    endlessly and aimlessly on a blues song, but one D.C.-based band, Grin,
    featured a guitarist named Nils Lofgren whose solos blew the others away.
    These displays of technique and imagination were humbling. My own guitar
    playing was so rudimentary that it was hard to imagine we were playing the
    same instrument. I figured these “real” bands were so far beyond my own
    abilities that any aspirations I had in that regard were hopeless.
    I caught one big outdoor rock festival back then—in Bath, a town a few
    hours east of London. Exhausted after hours of listening to music, I fell asleep on the damp ground. In the middle of the night I woke up and realized that
    Led Zeppelin was playing. I think they were the biggest act on the bill, but I went back to sleep. In the early morning I was awake again and caught Dr.
    John, who closed the festival. He was in full Night Tripper mode, and I loved that record, so I was excited to see him. He came out in carnival drag, playing his funky voodoo jive, and the UK audience pelted him with beer cans. I was
    confused. Here was the most original act of the whole festival, dumped into
    the worst slot, and he was completely unappreciated by this crowd. It was
    depressing. Maybe the costumes and headdresses made it seem like too much
    of a “show” for this bunch, who valued what they imagined as blues-guitar
    authenticity? But authentic blues played by white English guys? It made no
    sense. I couldn’t figure it