At the corner of Bloor and Dundas West, a seventy year old musician, jean jacket, crumpled cowboy hat, strums a shiny red electric guitar with help from a battery powered amplifier which he rolls from place to place in a baby stroller. His microphone and telescoping boom stand complete the stage. He has a happy-go-lucky presence, smiles at anyone who meets his eyes and in a voice like Valdy sings something about a woman to blame. I recognize it from the 70s and didn’t care for it much the first time. Looking back after crossing the street, a few layers of sadness is all I can tell. His open case for tips is empty, people are sidestepping him because of his amplification but now something worse happens, a woman enters with black sunglasses and a white mobility cane. My heart sinks while processing her situation. In addition to flexing all her listening power to determine exactly which way the traffic is moving, she’s assaulted by the amplification of I blew out my flip flop/ Stepped on a pop-top/ Cut my heel had to cruise on back home/ But there’s booze in the blender/ And soon it will render/ That frozen concoction that keeps me hanging on.

She walks with confidence in the right direction. She’s considering every sound differently than the rest of them. I thought I was oppressed by Margaritaville, but she’s the best musician here.