Sunday afternoon, and the sun was beating down on Jason Almgren and his acoustic guitar, heating the coins tossed into his instrument case so they were warm to the touch.
Stroll along the 16th Street Mall on weekends, and you’ll catch Almgren, one of a handful of buskers working downtown.
A bit earlier, Adam Stawinski — a.k.a. Clarinet Man — had been playing a tape of his music a few feet away, also seeking tips. Stawinski is a veteran Denver street figure. But he’s an old man now, his performing days all but over.
Almgren has the strong voice of a 33-year-old. He didn’t resent competing with Stawinski’s tape. “It can be a hard business, out here busking,” he said.
Almgren reached into his case and picked up a few dollar bills. They were crumpled amid an array of coins: quarters, pesos, a euro, even a few peep-show tokens from Miss Kitty’s.
He pocketed the bills with a shy grin. “People will think I’m rich and not tip, and that’s not conducive to paying the rent,” he said.
Almgren, who goes by Big Daddy Black, has busked since 2001. For the past four years, it has been his living. He told me he had a repertoire of about 1,000 songs, not including the ones he had written.
“I’d worked construction, managed restaurants, done telemarketing and had a bunch of dead-end jobs I hated,” he said. “But I love this. To see people smiling and enjoying the music? Even if I didn’t make money, I’d love doing it.”
His musical tastes range from Johnny Cash to Frank Zappa. “It’s an insane list,” he said.
But his deepest influences are traced to the Mississippi Delta. “I’ve always played in a bluesy vein,” he said. “Over the years, I’ve picked up other stuff, but it all circles around blues roots.”
Almgren is built like an Amana refrigerator. He sports black whiskers and eyeglasses with round lenses that give him an owlish look.
When he wraps a paw around the guitar’s neck, his fingers make it look no bigger than a ukulele’s. The guitar is a low-cost Takimine.
“It cost about $150,” he said. “When a busker buys a guitar, that’s generally about as much as he can muster at one time.”
Almgren began playing. The song was “Midnight Rider,” an old Allman Brothers tune. He deftly executed the hammer pulls on the strings, threw his head back and sang.
Well, I’ve got to run to keep from hiding, and I’m bound to keep on riding . . .
It was a strong high baritone or low tenor, take your pick. And it was pretty good.
After two stanzas, Almgren’s left hand climbed the neck, and he flat-picked a tasty solo. Passersby nodded their heads in appreciation. Coins thumped into the bottom of the guitar case.
“A couple of years ago, one lady came over and gave me a really nice tip,” he said. “She told me it was her son’s favorite song. And that he had passed away.
“That really affected me,” he said. “It’s why musicians exist — to speak to someone that way. A good song won’t make someone feel bad. Even if it brings out a certain sadness.”
Almgren, who is divorced, was homeless for a stretch. But he got himself off the streets and lives in a Capitol Hill apartment.
“Tomorrow is not promised,” he said. “We live on borrowed time, so we need to let the best of our character shine through.”
William Porter’s column runs Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Reach him at 303-954-1977 or wporter@denverpost.com.
