Sounds of the Unheard: A Portrait of Musicians Surviving on Skid Row

I’m sitting on the sidewalk having a chat with a guy named Leprechaun. He's a grizzled old Navy Seal vet who lives in a fantastical world in which he's the heir to an Irish fortune and spends his nights protecting the neighborhood as a ninja. For the entirety of our conversation, a disheveled street person whacks away on a detuned guitar nearby. "He's not very good," I say. Leprechaun responds without missing a beat, "It makes him happy."

Life on Skid Row will swallow you whole. If you live there and wish to create some semblance of stability, you’ve got to give enough of a shit about something to pull yourself out of the inherent downward spiral of the neighborhood. On Skid Row, music is a a reason to live, or at least a reason not to die.

As you cross Los Angeles Blvd, the change in scenery is drastic. The converted lofts and boutique cupcakeries of Los Angeles' rejuvenated downtown core give way to a bleak picture: Hundreds of broken people line the sidewalks and spill out onto the streets amidst the creeping stench of urine. Some lay in tents, others find a spot on the concrete in between discarded needles and mounds of trash. On one corner of 6th and San Pedro, a grizzled old woman dances to Tupac's "Me Against the World". On the opposite, missionaries proselytize through megaphones. It's chaos, somewhere between the Wild West and the Walking Dead. It is truly the bottom rung of society.

The congregation of missions and non-profits renders the direct vicinity around 6th and San Pedro the epicenter of the largest population of homeless in the United States. Hospitals dump patients outside the overflowing missions and recently-released inmates are dropped off at the Greyhound station two blocks away. Drugs, prostitution, and disease are rampant. The police are most concerned with street sleeping laws, while the ever-multiplying bourgeoise-boheme loft dwellers do their best to ignore the steady stream of unsavories wandering out of the mire.

Most representations of life on Skid Row halt at this depth and sensationalize the depravity instead of seeing the humanity that peeks between the cracks. Amongst all the turmoil is an intransigent population of individuals who struggle daily to cobble together a life and a community. For example: Every Wednesday night at the Central Community Church, right there on 6th and San Pedro, Skid Row Karaoke is held. A ragtag assortment of performers are given their moment in the spotlight. And at the end of every session, the chairs are kicked back and everybody joins in a rendition of the Electric Slide along to Will Smith's "Wild Wild West." It's there that you'll find guys like Franc Foster. His is one of the stories of salvation you'll find on Skid Row—not the kind of salvation you find in movies, but the type that gets you by.

"I grew up in the South Bay in the early 80's," Franc tells me in between bites of fried shrimp at his favorite seafood shack. "I was a black guy listening to rock n' roll. I was an anomaly. I didn't really fit the profile. I jammed with Mikkey D from Motorhead and played with Don Dokken, but I didn't have confidence in what I did because I didn't fit. I lived in Hermosa Beach but I had a tent down here because it was exciting! I'm a cat who used to slang crack rocks. I was sleeping on the sidewalks, portapotty pimpin'. I was stuck up in my addiction, went to prison a couple times. They called it ‘sales of drugs’ but basically I was just trying to get high for free. When I was in there, I continued to write, continued to practice the guitar. Eventually it began to click. I began to see the return in the eyes of the people I played for. Music kept me out of the mainstream, day-to-day mentality of life in prison and that is what saved me."

Upon release, Foster was handpicked by Wayne Kramer (of leftist Detroit protopunks MC5) to feature for Jail Guitar Doors, a project that donates guitars to inmates like Foster. Galvanized, he took on their mission on as his own. "Now I put instruments in people's hands who have no money, sometimes teach them how to play, build up their skills and put them in my band and use that as healing." Within the space of a couple of years, Franc went from sleeping on streets to sharing a bill with Tom Morello and Billy Bragg at the Ford Ampitheater.

Although Franc lives in a Koreatown apartment now, he's still very much a part of the community and knows its residents well. "They're real people with real lives," he says. "They're just lonely and looking to be validated in some way, just like everybody else. To get up every morning, struggle, recycle, get their little junior hustle on, whether its for beer, rocks, a joint, whatever gets them through. They fight to find a shower, fight to take a shit, fight to get from being fucked with by someone or the police. That's primary. This is a daily routine."

He goes on, "But there's a community within a community. On Sundays, we sit here on San Julian and barbecue and smoke joints. There's love. It's amazing that a community finds a way to strive no matter what it is. I've given a lot of love to this community. If you give love, you get love back. You can walk around as ask, ‘Do you know this guy?’ and they'll say, ‘Yeah I know that nigga. He plays the guitar. He plays the shit outta the guitar.’ And that makes me feel good because they identify me as someone who's transcended the daily routine of what everyone else has done."

After having a taste of the success that eluded him for decades, Foster has big plans and stars in his eyes. "We're building a brand," he says, "We were at the Ford Ampitheater with world heavies. Now we have to go out and prove that we're worthy. We're there, we're right there. I'm hooked up with a world class producer, this is gonna be my year." Foster, ever the hustler, still looks at music in terms of getting big. He's chasing his dream from the eighties. And in a way, all the shitty life experiences he's gone through have led him to be now closer than he's ever been.

Another Skid Row musician who has had brushes with the big time is S.S. Jones. The S.S. stands for Silky Soul and, although he's been struggling on the row for decades, he still has the jazzy bounce of an old school cat. He tells me his story on the cramped communal balcony of his single room apartment. "We all kinda came out here in the Motown thing," he begins. "When Motown moved to LA, all the best musicians on the East Coast came out here too. We had some great nights over at The Leonide, every Friday night back then. The music was just flying! In the early 80s, this was a real swinging cultural community."

The good times didn't last, though. Jones explains, "As soon as Motown ended, the music shifted, the players weren't needed anymore. The rappers came in and were sampling everything. Studio work kinda dried up. So you had a lot of guys down here sittin' up in these hotels that were top flight student musicians with no place to play."

Jones never left the area, though. He kept on in his slow and steady way until his Skid Row Musicians Network found themselves the fancy of a "wealthy Hollywood socialite" in the late 90's. She dressed them in tuxedos and trotted them out to show in a very public display of “philanthropy.” In Jones's words: "That was the last big push we had, about ten years ago. We recorded 17 songs in a very fancy studio, but it didn't work out too well. We had a big meeting up in Beverly Hills and they brought all these contracts out. We read the contracts and they said that we didn't have any rights to any of the songs. Those songs were written with blood, sweat, and tears, man, we weren't gonna sign 'em away! We said no and the band kinda split. We never finished the recordings. That whole thing ended with me saying, 'Before I sign away the rights to all of my songs you can skip your damn way back to Dublin!'…I did feel like they were trying to exploit us. I don't know to what end. I think it was kind of a competition between the poverty pimps, the people who use us."

Jones is a remnant of a time fading fast. He recalls an anecdote that best explains it: "I was in the music store the other day and I heard someone playing the most beautiful flamenco guitar I'd ever heard, and lo and behold, it was a guy sittin' at a keyboard! You don't need a musician to play anything anymore!"

Unkal Bean is of the generation that followed. To him, Skid Row was never tinged with any twinkling nostalgia for a past age. He lives in and runs a small bodega bedecked in Rastafarian imagery and artwork from locals. He sells recycled clothes and knick-knacks, incense and the like. For most of the day, he sits at the threshold of his domain and observes. He sees me coming and at first speaks with a laconic and detached tone, like he’s sizing me up, almost chiding me by saying, "I always be tellin' people when they come down here and they be tryin' to film: You don't know the reality. You only seein' shit from your perspective—what you imagined, what you envisioned. The only motherfuckers who know the inside and outsides of this shit are the motherfuckers who be sleepin' on the street."

Bean thaws completely as he tells his story, though, and his empathy becomes clear. "I been 14 years on Skid Row," he says, "besides being incarcerated at times. I was living on the South Side of Chicago before that but I got into some shit. Honestly, I came here on the run. I had just released an album and a family member said they would support my music."

"I've met so many people getting off that bus to come search for the Hollywood dream. Everything goes downhill and they never leave Skid Row. I've watched so many people get clean and relapse, do it again. None of them are bad people. If you're coming from prison, you're getting off the Greyhound bus or you're getting off at Union Station. You're still comin' downtown. If you don't have resources, you're basically forced to be right here on Skid Row, on the streets. If you try to access resources in the programs, after so long it becomes a deterrent from growth. You're so frustrated; go do this, go do that, fill out this paper, fill out that paper, wait nine months. You're faced with so much negativity that it deters you. All you need is one bad day and you're back on the bottom."

"This community is made up of immigrants," he goes on. "Those that live in the community live in the community. Those from outside the community who come down here and run amok, those are the individuals who bring the negative elements. In their mind, there is no community. But the people here are beautiful. I open my doors in the morning, they greet me, I greet them, wave, handshake, peace and blessings. It's all righteous as far as I'm concerned. It's a blessing and a privilege."

Bean's music reflects his positive outlook. Although it aesthetically carries with it all the trappings of modern hip hop, it lacks the aggression and masculine posturing. Even in his video for "Problems," though he mimes knocking a guy out, he picks him back up and offers a hug as a gesture immediately after. "I've been exemplifying that since I got here," he told me, "positivity, righteousness, having a warm heart."

Bean's come to accept his lot in life through a begrudging fatalism. "Staying positive when shit is fucked up, it's hard. I ain't really got no choice. I've got a big fuckin' heart. I hate to see people in pain. It hurts me. That's part of the reason why I drink." I ask him why he’s stayed on Skid Row for so long. "Cuz' of people." he says with no hesitation, "The woman I was dealing with, she's incarcerated right now. Back in the day, I didn't even know this, she was one of the little girls I used to give dollars to. I used to see her and her sister with her dad on the street and I'd give 'em dollars. That's why I stay here…the relationship that I have with the community. I embraced the people and respect them and they respect me…We all go through what we go through. But we accept and adapt to our environment. We have no choice but to do that."

If you've spent any time in Downtown Los Angeles, chances are that you've come across Andre crooning soul classics for spare change. He's garnered a near celebrity status in the area and for good reason. His voice is very good and his charm is effervescent. To most, he is the all-singing, all-dancing face of the "homeless problem" tucked a couple blocks away.

On the street Andre maintains a practiced approach and a manic, dandyish affect when coming at people. “My schtick has changed over the years," he tells me. "I used to say ‘Give me ten seconds. If I don’t impress you with my vocal prowess, you merely fire me’. I’d have to say it really fast. People ask me why I talk so fast and I say, ‘Because white people walk so quickly down here!’” His charisma is evident immediately, but if you see him he’s never idle. “When I decide to come out here, my day consists of trying to get what I need for that day. It’s turned out that it is kind of therapeutic for me to do what I do because sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel good. Sometimes in my own solitude I can think too much and that will send me spiraling down…Hence why I'm on Skid Row, why I lived on the streets for 8 years. I am not a mentally healthy person. I have stresses in my life. I've developed phobias and I've always had manic-depression."

"Do you know how many famous people I know?!" Andre exclaims. "I met Emilio Estevez seven years ago. Outside the Geffen MOCA. He was there with his kids and his wife. I was doing my thing, coming up with my pitch and singing them my songs. He was crying and wowed and said "I'm gonna give you every dime in my pocket" and gave me $70, $80 dollars. He said he had a script he was looking at that he wanted me for. I didn't have a phone then but I told him that he could find me every Wednesday night at Bar 107's karaoke. I never saw him again. I've never seen him since. People have good intentions, I believe, but it's not that simple, is it? That sort of stuff happens to me all the time."

Andre differs from the others I spoke with in that he uses music to survive, while the others survive to do music. His existence is a picture of liminal positions laid atop each other. He lives between communities—his home is in Skid Row but he makes his money singing to people on the gentrified blocks. He's a complex person, often depressed, but when a potential mark walks by, he springs into a vivacious routine and posits himself as the happy-go-lucky “homeless tour guide” with a heart of gold. He's not homeless, but he allows people to operate on the assumption that he is for the betterment of his schtick. Lastly, he views himself as a busker, a couple notches above any regular bum—but when people give him money for singing, are they giving it to him because he's singing or because he's supposedly homeless and his songs humanize him more than the half-dead addict on the street?

There are times, though, when Andre comes across transcendent moments through music. “In 2004, when I first started doing this [singing], I’m giving my schpiel and one guy was like, ‘Please, man, I don’t wanna be bothered with your shit.’ I opened my mouth and started singing ‘Change Is Gonna Come’ by Sam Cooke and this guy, the guy that didn’t wanna hear me starts bawling. This huge man in a three-piece suit starts bawling. And I looked at him and I started bawling. I was moved…I didn’t know why at first. My voice started trembling in the middle of the song but I finished. I was just gonna walk away but the guy grabbed me and he said ‘I needed to hear that right now’. I couldn’t stop crying. I was so emotionally overwhelmed. I guess I can be an emotional basketcase sometimes. To make a difference in someone’s day….That was overwhelming to me. I couldn’t believe that I had that effect, that I had that power. It made me realize that there was something to be said for me existing.”

Thank you to General Jeff Page and the Los Angeles Poverty Department for their assistance with research.

Jemayel Khawaja is a writer and anthropologist living in Los Angeles. He's on Twitter - @JemayelK