Buskers cast a sort of magic that seems to linger a little longer on your way home. Both creative labor and an art form, busking softens gritty streets and transforms ordinary spaces into fleeting moments of genuine human connection. Amid noise pollution and the robotic rhythm of everyday life, buskers invite onlookers to pause and breathe, to exist beyond routine.
Yet behind these public performances lies a reality wherein busking is mistaken for mere solicitation and monetary gain, dismissing the genuine devotion and talent of these artists.
Despite the instability and stigma that come with performing in public spaces, buskers return to the streets with an ever-growing desire to unite people through the shared language of their craft, ensuring their music rises above the city’s noise.
Tuning the chords
Encompassing various performances, busking lives through the art of magicians, street dancers, and musicians in exchange for gratuities. But for those who see it as a vessel of expression, musical busking means more than that.
For student performers like Aris Ashe, also known in the community as ARIS, his journey began with a heartfelt ode to himself—a piece of his story living in the lyrics he wrote and the strings he plucked.
Currently, the songwriter’s routine relies on a balance between his life as a student and part-time musician, busking during the weekends and in nearby malls where the foot traffic is high.
Similarly, Charlene Besinio, or Saturn, describes busking as a passion project, exhausting her time and money to perform in areas all around Manila. “Para sa akin kasi, basta may spot, kahit malayo, kinukuha ko. Pero syempre, kino-consider ko rin if may time pa ba ako,” she explains.
(For me, as long as there is a spot, even though it’s far, I grab that chance. But of course, I take it into consideration if I still have time.)
Her affection for the arts pays off through heartwarming audience interactions. Recalling one instance when she was asked to sing “Happy Birthday” to an audience member’s friend, she shared how the entire crowd joined in the performance. “It’s fulfilling to see people enjoying themselves through our music. It feels like I’m able to connect people through music, that we’re able to inspire them,” she details in Filipino.
ARIS feels this same fulfillment when his music reaches individuals differently. When he makes someone’s day or unintentionally saves a person’s life, “doon ako namo-motivate. Kasi hindi lang naman pala ako tumutugtog doon para magka-pera.,” he emphasizes, noting music’s ability to unknowingly touch hearts, especially during dissonant times.
(That’s what motivates me. It makes me realize that I’m not just performing for money after all.)
When the applause falls silent
Still, life behind the microphone is far from easy. For many performers, busking is not merely a hobby or a passion project—it is labor sustained by uncertainty, public judgment, and financial instability.
Despite the growing visibility of busking in the Philippines, many artists still struggle against the perception that they are asking for alms rather than sharing an art form. “Most people…ang tingin sa mga buskers, parang namamalimos or nagbe–beg ka sa harap ng maraming tao,” Saturn vents.
(Most people think buskers are asking for money or begging in public.)
Meanwhile, for ARIS, who relies on busking as his primary source of income while supporting himself through college, these assumptions often erase the realities behind the craft. What began an attempt to fund a school project eventually became the foundation that allowed him to continue his education. From covering his tuition fees to daily expenses, ARIS explains that “Sobrang laking tulong niya kasi ‘yung sobrang tagal ko na practice na skill and ‘yung passion ko is nakakatulong sakin para mabuhay.”
(It helps me greatly that my skill and passion is what’s sustaining me financially.)
However, unlike stable jobs anchored by fixed salaries and predictable paychecks, busking survives at the mercy of circumstance. While some days bring abundant tips and lingering listeners, others pass slowly, with songs dissolving into indifferent streets and earning barely enough to cover the journey home. Saturn has learned to only accept gigs with talent fees or even just transportation allowances.
Financial unpredictability is only one aspect of the struggle. Public performances also expose buskers to safety concerns and theft. While performing alone, ARIS recalls incidents where people attempted to steal directly from his tip-box mid performance. “Habang nagbibilang ako, bigla na lang may dumampot sa tip box tapos sabay takbo,” he recounts.
(While I was counting, somebody stole from my tip box and ran off.)
Saturn, meanwhile, emphasized that busking requires just as much emotional resilience as musical skill. “You should always expect the worst, that not everyone will appreciate what you do, and that some will judge,” she points out in Filipino.
Despite these realities, neither Saturn nor ARIS looks at busking with regret. Be it a dismissive glance or a half-empty tip box, what remains is the same quiet conviction within them—the one that keeps them searching for their next audience, instruments in hand.
Here’s to the fools who dream
As busking continues to gain visibility in the Philippines, buskers hope to perform freely in public without stigma or displacement. Unfortunately, since some equate busking to begging, many buskers are forced to leave public areas without consideration. This exposes the need for stronger regulations that can protect the safety and rights of buskers.
In hindsight, the art form’s preservation requires an audience that is willing to support the art itself. Whether through extending gratuities or simply stopping to listen, small acts of support help sustain a community that imbues humanity into the city’s routine.
After all, as Saturn shares in Filipino, “Tips are more of an appreciation. Those who wish to give or show their appreciation can do so. We’re not begging. We want to provide music for the people and to entertain people.”
For buskers like ARIS and Saturn, the hope remains simple: that people continue to see music not as noise to ignore, but as something that comforts weary souls, keeping the streets alive long after the ovation fades.