I STUMBLED into busking – that’s public street performances for the uninitiated – out of desperation in 1997. As a green international student in Perth, Western Australia, with the Asian financial crisis and the Reformasi movement just around the corner, little did I know then that my journey as a troubadour would begin on the sidewalks of Hay Street in the city centre.  

Anwar Ibrahim seemed destined to take over the nation’s premiership and Malaysia was in fifth gear in heading towards the fabled 2020, which was then still 20-odd years ahead and also seemingly inevitable. Malaysia was one of the “Asian tigers” of the region.

Malaysians, generally, had a seemingly spotless reputation at this time Down Under. Student visas came along with part-time work permission (or whatever they call it) and we were even given a tax number if we were to be employed part-time anywhere during our stay as international students. 

Bumiputera government scholarship students flooded universities and fed Australia’s tertiary education coffers, and relations between the two countries were cordial, save for the 1993 skirmish between then-prime ministers Dr Mahathir Mohamad and Paul Keating over the latter’s “recalcitrant” remark. 

That notwithstanding, I was there as a private student in spite of being a Bumiputera. My education was funded by my parents who, in spite of being academics in a public university, were vehement that I take the private route.

My parents stuck by their principle that local university scholarships should go to those who truly needed and deserved them based on merit, such as rural or working-class students who made the grade (this isn’t always the case, as we know it).

Nevertheless, that’s how I ended up in the backwaters of pre-mining boom Perth in the mid- to late-1990s. It was the most affordable and closest Western first-world city to Malaysia, which also shares the same time zone and is just a six-hour flight away.

One of my housemates, a school friend, secured a part-time job at a restaurant run by a Hong Kong family (fleeing the impending “reunification” with China, as it were, then in 1997)  as a kitchen hand and delivery boy. He was an outgoing type who enjoyed clubbing and socialising, quite the opposite of me, the loner.

I was more taken by the sheer variety of albums and records I could sample at the local record stores and this proved to be my parallel education, which was to shape me as a musician and singer-songwriter.

But my “graduation” into the world of being a musician was my foray into busking.

Once, I was walking around the city, enjoying the cold climate and the sight of my own breath like most deprived Southeast Asians would do, and would often catch the sight of buskers in the city.

Busking was not a common thing in Malaysia and, in fact, was frowned upon and considered illegal compared with now, where there are busking organisations and clubs.

I had seen some buskers around Central Market during my weekends hanging out in downtown Kuala Lumpur (some of whom would be my heroes and friends later) but it had never occurred to me to be something I would delve into.     

As I observed most of the buskers in downtown Perth, a eureka moment came to me: “I can do better than these guys.”

Being freshly despondent and depressed about not being able to carry on with my budding band back home with my friends and missing an important period of the history of underground music in Malaysia, I came to realise that I had what it took all along.

I had applied for a variety of part-time jobs high and low and nobody called back.

Running out of options, I had nothing to lose. The glaring thing about the buskers was that none of them were Asian. They were locals or wayfaring Caucasian backpackers.

I found a niche by default: the “singing Asian guy”. I discovered that the monthly busking permit was only A$1 per month and I duly signed up without hesitation. There was no audition or whatever. 

To cut a long story short, I busked on the streets of Perth for the next three years until I was done with university. Being a loner, I never really gave a damn about what other people thought of me.

I earned better than the hourly wage I would’ve gotten washing dishes or such and even could work whenever I felt like – although Friday nights were my go-to since the locals were in a jolly mood heading out to the bars and clubs and were more generous with their A$2 coins.

I even received a variety of gifts and knick-knacks from random appreciative people, things I wouldn’t have received if I was some faceless kitchen hand or waiter. And, best of all, everything I earned was tax-free. 

So, I would like to thank all the potential employers who rejected me or maybe didn’t even give a second glance at my applications. I remained the only Asian busker during those years and at times, this distinction was to my advantage.

This experience was also my “education”, not only as a musician, but more importantly, as a performer since I had to sharpen my proverbial chops to a mostly inattentive public crowd. I had to earn their attention in order for them to part with their spare change. It’s hard work.

I also encountered so many interesting characters and situations that were priceless (I’ll save this for a future episode) that no university or college programme could ever offer.

Given the right circumstances and time, rejection is the best teacher. What matters is whether you’re willing to get over being bummed out and learn from it. – October 23, 2020.

* Azmyl Yunor is a touring underground recording artiste, and an academic in media and cultural studies. He has published articles on pop culture, subcultures and Malaysian cultural politics. He adheres to the three-chords-and-the-truth school of songwriting, and Woody Guthrie’s maxim “All you can write is what you see”. He is @azmyl on Twitter.

* This is the opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insight. Article may be edited for brevity and clarity.