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Photo Credit: Andrew Prince

Jermaine Carter looks mad. He pulls his cart along the sidewalk of the Brookline Ave.

bridge, then stops just more than halfway across. He pulls out a metal baking rack and throws it

at the ground. A man panhandling maybe twenty feet away notices.

“Ohhh shit!”

The man is trying to call attention to Jermaine’s visible frustration, but Jermaine ignores

this comment and takes hold of the stack of buckets in his cart.

Jermaine needs a place to play his drums, but the police are trying to take away that

place. Both parties know what is at stake: the Red Sox are playing in Game 6 of the American

League Championship Series and if they win tonight, they will move on to the World Series.

With predictions for additional revenue in Boston climbing as high as $10 million per World

Series game if the Sox make it, everyone knows there is money to be made. Street musicians

within the informal economy like Jermaine see the higher prospects for profit as well, but they

often face opposition from law enforcement once the spotlight is shined on their city. So

Jermaine’s fit of anger is evidence that not everyone in Boston is ecstatic when the Red Sox are

on their way to victory.

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Jermaine and his cousin Dewan Brown have been bucket drumming for more than 10

years. Terrell, also Jermaine’s cousin and Dewan’s nephew, began regularly playing with the

other two about five years ago. Jermaine and Terrell make their way downtown from their homes

in Dorchester and Dewan from Everett, and they attempt to draw in passersby at any Boston

locale with high foot traffic – Copley Square, the Boston Common, TD Garden and, of course,

Fenway Park. They pride themselves on the fact that they’ve had no formal training and, calling

themselves Boston’s Bucket Boys, the three transform makeshift drum sets first into music, and

then money. They’re not the first to do so.

In the 1980s, musicians with plastic bucket drum sets began popping up in urban areas

across the United States. Larry Wright, a native of the Bronx, is often cited as the first busker, or

street performer, to use plastic buckets in place of actual drums. Other cities have since gained

their own recognized bucket drummers. Todd Irving, who plays under the pseudonym ‘Funk

Plastic,’ has become a well-known figure in the Seattle area. Jermaine and his cousins weren’t

even the first to call themselves the Bucket Boys. The Chicago Bucket Boys, who have now built

up a resumé including regular appearances at Chicago Bulls games, had their beginnings in the

mid-1990s.

Chicago’s Boys use only their drumsticks and five-gallon buckets. This technique yields

a tightly synchronized sound. When Jermaine began playing outside Fenway, he went a different

route than the Chicago group and experimented with other materials. A multifaceted sound

requires a multifaceted instrument. And so when the police force him from his usual spot, it’s not

simply a matter of picking up a pail – Jermaine must haul his entire ensemble – baking racks,

loaf pans, small pots, and frying pans.

Ten minutes before Jermaine’s slight tantrum on the bridge, Dewan and Terrell were

standing on Lansdowne St. at a parking lot entrance staring at their favored location for

drumming. They were mulling over their options.

Typically, these three men perform outside of Fenway Park, stadium for the Boston Red

Sox, after home games. On this night, though, their pitch, or performance spot, has been fenced

off. Packs of police officers patrol the perimeter of the stadium. At the start of the game, police

vehicles and EMS trucks lined the block where the Bucket Boys normally set up, but by the

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seventh inning the cars are gone and a string of metal fencing barricades the spot where the Boys

perform. Dewan says that last weekend, when it was only the first and second games of the

series, it wasn’t so bad.

“You know, it was manageable. It was manageable. They was giving us some leeway.”

He looks up towards the back of the Green Monster, Fenway’s famed high left field wall.

“Cause it was win or lose then, you know. But now it’s do or die.”

He speaks with enthusiasm, as if the potential chaos just makes the night a little more

interesting. Of the three, someone has to keep his cool. Dewan has no issue taking on that

responsibility. Behind him, Terrell talks to someone, presumably Jermaine, on his cell phone.

“They’re tryin’ to kick us out.”

Terrell ends the call and turns to Dewan. The youngest of the three, Terrell looks unsure.

He tells him that they are going to move their equipment and play on the bridge. Dewan nods in

response, unfazed. He is used to this by now.

This is a very different story from the one that played out a few nights earlier. October

14th was a good night for the Boys. All three men were set up in their usual spot beneath the

Green Monster just before the fans exited the stadium. Sometimes Jermaine or Dewan is left to

go it alone, so a full group that night meant bigger sound. Rapid rhythms of dum from some old

plastic and tink from metal kitchenware attracted dozens of people. The audience formed a semi-

circle and the space around the tip bucket acted as a stage of sorts for those willing to show their

stuff. A bold young woman danced her way to the bucket and gyrated to the drumbeat before

tossing a few dollars into the container. Anyone who wanted to donate to the Bucket Boys after

that had to demonstrate a few of their best dance moves on the way there.

At one point a mother gently pushed her son forward, suggesting to the five- or six-year-

old to join the Bucket Boys during their routine. The boy displayed a shy demeanor but went

ahead and sat upon one of the overturned milk crates the guys used as seats. As he knocked the

drumsticks, ridiculously out of proportion to his hands, against Jermaine’s set he had no idea

how much he was aiding the Boys in working the crowd. When he finished his guest appearance

a few minutes later, Terrell asked the boy for his name.

“Luke,” he said.

“We got a new nickname for Luke. White chocolate!”

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The show continued. Jermaine, who stood up earlier to dance with his daughter to the

side of the audience, let Terrell take the lead. He called out “slow” to Dewan and they

transitioned at once to a measured hip-hop beat. The crowd grew, reaching the other side of the

street, and exiting fans found it easier to watch and listen rather than elbow their way through the

masses. The Boys didn’t even have to play for an hour before a couple hundred dollars sat in that

bucket, and they had law enforcement on their side this time. Before they had finished setting up,

an officer on duty for the game gave Dewan the beloved nod of approval.

Go ahead.

Five nights later, Jermaine could be frustrated by being boxed out of a prized location; he

could just as well be irritated by having to compete for sound space now. As they make their

move from the coveted pitch beneath the Green Monster to the bridge, the Boys pass by an

elderly man who claimed his territory at the near end of the bridge and has been drumming for

more than a half hour already. With six drumsticks in comparison to two, the Boys can drown

out the old man’s riffs, but they know that playing in the same vicinity as a fellow drummer

won’t be good for business.

The disadvantage becomes obvious two or three minutes after Jermaine and Dewan

spread out their array of pans, racks and buckets. A group of five twenty-somethings, arms

linked to keep from stumbling, passes the Boys’ new pitch and one man, a skinny guy in a fitted

leather jacket, extracts himself from the group to do a little dance near the drum sets. While

moving his thin frame back and forth, he spots the other musician at the end of the bridge.

“Oh, they have competition! Who’s that?”

He calls out the question in a feisty tone as he returns to his posse and they walk away.

Jermaine doesn’t appear discouraged, though. In fact, he seems to have channeled his initial

frustration into a hyper energy. He runs between Terrell at the drum set-up and Dewan, who is

on his phone fifteen feet away, occasionally stopping to show strangers the “JUST FUCKING

WIN” t-shirt he is wearing.

The situation hasn’t gotten Dewan down either. He admits that if the Sox lose (which is a

real possibility in a 2-1 game in the 7th inning) they will have to work harder to pick up spirits,

but he still expects a good turnout. Until Shane Victorino of the Red Sox hits a grand slam and

the Boston police turn their focus to crowd control in preparation for the thousands of ecstatic

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fans who will soon flood the streets. Suddenly they care that the Buckets Boys, who they

successfully boxed out of one spot, have somehow found another.

It isn’t illegal for the Boys to play outside Fenway. It isn’t illegal for the Boys to play

anywhere that’s a public space. In July of 2006, Thomas Donahue, former Assistant Corporation

Counsel for the City of Boston, sent out a legal memorandum to City employees stating that

street performers and artists do not need permits to perform in Boston. The memorandum’s

description of street performer includes those who play musical instruments and defines a public

area as sidewalks, parks, or other public pedestrian ways in the city of Boston. However, street

performers must obey all laws, like the city’s noise ordinance or laws against disorderly conduct.

These are the grounds on which law enforcement continues to suppress city buskers.

After more than a decade of playing in the same spot, most policemen are familiar with

the Bucket Boys and even encourage their presence on occasion, like the cop several nights

earlier. But the Boys still get stifled every now and then. Officers mumble something about the

level of noise, and the group usually stops. Once in awhile they give the police a little pushback,

mentioning their making it to the “big screen.” It’s true. They are on the big screen. While they

usually don’t show up in person outside Fenway Park until the 7th or 8th inning, this past season

they were showcased before every game in a video on the Jumbotron. A montage displayed

images of the city and the Boys provided the soundtrack. One night Dewan mentioned that,

while the group had been filmed back in April for the pre-game video, he still hadn’t seen it.

They see this jump from outside the park to inside as being worthy of a little recognition, but

their situation hasn’t changed much in the ten years of performing.

It would be easy to say it’s a tough game for the Bucket Boys, up against the Goliaths

that are the Red Sox franchise and the Boston Police Department. Sometimes drumming is the

only form of income for the Boys. And while their association with these large institutions is

generally cooperative, the relationship can quickly turn parasitic. In the case of the Jumbotron

video, the thought that appearing on a large screen might mean a step towards fame must be

tamped down. Jermaine, Dewan and Terrell are not individual people to these institutions but

instead are mere objects of baseball-park pride that receive no real privilege in return and are still

considered buskers at the end of the day.

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The Bucket Boys can’t fault the big guys for everything, though. Openly stating that their

revenues from drumming have often gone to purchasing recreational drugs like marijuana, it may

be that Jermaine and Dewan’s profits could have gone towards more productive uses. During one

performance, Jermaine stopped playing to greet a thin man dressed in all white with crystal studs

in his ear lobes. They exchanged a few words and Jermaine took a hefty roll of bills from one of

his pockets. The other man sneaked a clear plastic bag filled with ground cannabis to Jermaine

and took a portion of the bills. As the transaction was going on, a petite older woman, a Fenway

Park employee, walked by and tucked a few dollars down into the tip bucket.

“Gotta take care of my boys.”

Would she have wanted her money back had she known? Maybe. While this woman

might be happy to help out the Bucket Boys despite the questionable legitimacy of their act, law

enforcement clearly is not so willing.

Two police officers approach the Boys on the bridge. The older cop waits only long

enough for the younger officer to make a “wrap it up” signal and tell them to put away their

instruments. Then the senior officer continues on his own to confront the solo drummer at the

end of the bridge, ordering that man to do the same. Terrell and Dewan don’t respond, and there

is a long pause before they make movements to pack up. The officer standing before them looks

uncomfortable as he waits.

“If it wasn’t a deciding game, guys…”

He shoves the Boys’ tip bucket towards them using one of his feet. It slides easily; there

isn’t any money inside. The cop is either attempting to help them or only suggesting that they

pick up the pace.

The incident causes a type of cognitive dissonance for the musicians. The grand slam has

just significantly increased their potential for profit, as fans will flood from the stadium in a

euphoric stupor and the Boys’ beats will come across as a continuation of the celebration. At the

same time, Victorino’s four-run homer immediately sets into motion the police force’s measures

to prevent any post-game mayhem. The Bucket Boys’ instinct is to be elated even though they

know they’ve just been defeated.

They start towards Kenmore Square. It’s still a good location; hundreds of fans will pass

through here on their way to the T. But they can’t decide on a spot, and now the game is over.

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Jermaine and Dewan pull the carts as Terrell rides his bicycle alongside them, receding farther

from the din of the game.

This doesn’t mean they won’t be back.

The bread pans that the Boys use as snare drums are often stacked, like nesting dolls.

Two or three pans are placed one inside the other, the outer piece always displaying a wide,

crooked crack right on top.

“They crack over time, you know, cuz we play so hard,” Dewan explains with a grin.

“But you just gotta reload. You just gotta reload.”