Buhay Busker: 'Kahit Walang Nanonood, Tuloy Lang'

(SPOT.ph) Klane Zurbano would like to make one thing clear: buskers aren’t beggars. They’re entertainers doing actual work. “Hindi siya nanghihingi lang ng pera,” the singer-songwriter and busker says. “We entertain. Kung na-enjoy n’yo, you can give us tips. Wala namang pilitan.”

Klane is among a growing community of musicians in Metro Manila who call malls, bazaars, and train stations their workplaces, spots where they perform live for at least 2-3 hours every working day. They don’t receive a fixed salary; take home pay depends on the “tips” audiences dunk on their boxes. The Oxford Dictionary, in its definition of busker, uses the more formal term monetary donations.

Buskers are legit musicians. Most of them are, like Klane, singer-songwriters chasing the dream of having professional recording careers. They seek out official permits to perform from mall or train station administrations. Some of them even get paid a talent fee per performance. And like most jobs in the gig industry, busking takes investment, preparation, discipline, and networking.

“Busking is not for everyone,” says 25-year-old Clyde Ortenzo. “You have to be on a certain level. Kailangan maganda ang personality mo. Of course, kailangan maganda ang boses mo. Kailangan din maganda ang equipment mo.”

Equipment includes not just the main musical instrument (guitars for most buskers) but also a microphone or two, speakers, and connection chords. Some buskers even bring mixers to make the sound better. The investment is not exactly cheap, with good quality speakers alone costing as much as P50,000.

The work involves lugging all that equipment to their chosen venue, setting them up, then taking them back home after the gig. In Clyde’s case, he often takes a tricycle when the venue is near his condo—so he can save on pamasahe. His equipment rides the main passenger seat while he backrides.

The Capiz-born artist, who has a degree in Management from UP Visayas, got his start in busking at a mall in Iloilo, playing alongside his older brother. He once spent P1,000 for a ride-hailing service only to make P1,400 from a gig, leaving him an income of a measly P400 after a 3-hour performance and about the same amount of time on the road.

“Pero okay na rin kesa naman humiga-higa lang ako sa condo,” he notes, half in jest. “Sayang naman.” That said, no gig is really ever wasted no matter how little is earned. Clyde sees every busking performance as an opportunity to market himself to potential clients— in corporate or private events that offer sure income and bigger figures.

His ultimate goal is to be signed by a label. Until then he will continue busking and independently release self-penned and self-produced songs like this beaut of a track. How does it feel when he’s singing his heart out in a mall or in a terminal and no one seems to be listening? Like many buskers, Clyde has learned to ignore and just perform.

Clyde doesn’t hold a candle to Klane’s P400 story. There was a time she only got to take home P20. “Nakakapanghina,” she offers. “Sabi ko sa sarili ko, tama pa ba ‘tong ginagawa ko?”

It was 2022 and the country was still recovering from the pandemic. Busking in the city was relatively new. Not only were audiences unappreciative—“Ang laging sinasabi nila, namamalimos,” Klane says. 

So she went back to her day job as software developer, which she had quit because she needed a career break. But she kept busking after work, twice or thrice a week. She maintained the routine for about two years until she decided the corporate world was really not cutting it for her. In 2025, Klane switched things up; she became a full-time performer and a part-time software developer.

She knew busking alone will never be enough to support herself and her two fur babies (Wanda and Tasha, both maltese, that she takes with her to gigs to her everyone’s delight — hers, the doggos’, and the audience’s). She had to penetrate the world of private and corporate gigs that paid so much more, to earn for herself a more sustainable living. 

Prior to 2025 Klane only had a repertoire of 15 songs that she kept repeating until her  three hours was up. Half of those were her original compositions, including this uptempo pop love song none of her audiences knew. So she imposed upon herself to learn more materials to cover. A whole lot more. 

Like Clyde, Klane now sees busking as a means to get clients for private gigs. “Mas sigurado doon,” she notes. “Hindi tulad ng bente lang kikitain mo.”

Safety and security are also more assured,  unlike in busking where there’s often unpleasant encounters. Being ignored is one thing, but being shouted at or worse, being harassed, quite another.

“Naka experience na ako ng mga lumalapit na nambabastos, naninigaw,” Klane says. “May experience din ako na may lumalandi habang nagpeperform ako.” It was a man who started talking to her even as she was performing, telling her about himself. “Nakakatakot,” she recalls. In between songs, she would politely remind the guy she was working and needed to concentrate. 

Every now and then she would also hear comments like: “Ang galing ‘no? Kakanta ka lang tapos kumikita ka na. Mag ganyan na lang din kaya ako?” Klane says she’s getting better at handling these remarks but admits that sometimes they still rub her the wrong way. 

“Sa pagkanta na yun ubos na ubos ang energy ko for the whole day kahit 2 to 3 hours lang yun,” she explains. “Yung preparation ko sa bahay [mahaba din] kasi di naman ako susugod sa performance na walang bala. Yung gamit ko, yung gastos ko sa mga gamit, yung buhat ko sa mga gamit to and from the venue. Nakakapagod siya na trabaho. Hindi siya yung pupunta lang ako para tumugtog.”

Marron Bongaitan is practically a baby in the busking scene, at least compared to Clyde and Klane. He started only in April. He had his first taste of it, though, over two years ago. Passing by a busker at the MRT’s Boni Station, the long curious Marron approached the performer and asked if he could sing one song.

“That's the moment I fell in love with busking,” the Psychology graduate says. “Walang nanonood that time pero iba yung saya na naramdaman ko.” From then on he would frequently ask buskers he would see on the street, in malls, in train stations if he can jam along. 

An early mistake, during his first official solo gig—a bazaar event—taught him a lesson. “Hindi ko alam na dapat pala may maayos na pagkakasunod-sunod ng songs,” he recalls. “Kumanta po ako ng ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ ni  Elvis Presley tapos ang sinunod kong kanta was ‘Ligaya’ by Eraserheads.”

He also didn’t know he can take breaks between sets. He performed three hours straight. The bazaar organizer who gave him permission to busk wondered where he got his energy. But the man liked his performance so much he decided to make Marron a regular busker for the next two months, and until now Marron remains part of the lineup of performers for his bazaars.

Marron is now earning enough to provide for himself and his family, even leaving him extra funds for music recordings. His ultimate goal is to release more original songs and be known as a singer-songwriter, not just an event performer or busker. “Someday, I want people to recognize my music not just because they heard me perform once, but because my songs became part of their memories.”

Meanwhile, he keeps busking. There are still those zero income days, of course. “Especially kapag umulan and kaunti lang ang foot traffic,” says Marron. But one rained out performance became truly memorable for this neophyte. “I decided to just keep playing and enjoy the moment while in the pouring rain — parang batang naglalaro sa ulan,” Marron recounts, wistful. “Kahit walang nanonood at kahit giniginaw ako tuloy lang.” An important lesson came back to him. “I was reminded na kaya ko ‘to sinimulan is to feel moments like this, to simply enjoy performing.”

Clyde, Klane, and Marron all perform regularly in SM Light and SM Fame malls in Mandaluyong. Clyde and Klane also perform in Uptown Parade BGC.