Performing on the streets of San Francisco as a busker can be daunting. The weather is tricky, as is cash flow, and nobody talks about the harassment, Little Happy told me with a shrug.
Like that one time someone tried to nab their Bluetooth speaker. Or the time kids swiped their tips. Or the time that someone randomly grabbed Happy’s cane and threw it into the ceiling of a BART station.
“It just hung there. It was surreal. It was almost too funny to be pissed about,” they recalled. “Then I went back to singing.”
Odds are, Little Happy will be singing when you meet them, too. From a distance, they cut an unassuming figure: Slight in stature, bundled in a hoodie, swaying to a gentle rhythm.
When Happy sings, however, their energy swirls into relief. Their voice skips with a lilt, weaving through lyrics with nary a wobble. Their lower register is warm and smooth like antique mahogany; when Happy soars to hit high notes, they break in and out of a half-yodel, a signature touch honed over thousands of hours of practice in the shower and on the streets.
On a day outside of the Ferry Building recently, I heard Happy belt the hook of Elton John’s “Your Song,” a Lite FM staple I’ve listened to thousands of times. Happy’s voice danced along a knife’s edge, accenting the hook with small yelps of emotion.
“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words…”
Rare is the cover that makes a classic song feel new again. There was no crowd around me to hear Happy, only passersby who offered long looks and occasional smiles. Some days are less busy than others.
The color of Little Happy’s voice recalls Cranberries singer Dolores O’Riordan, or perhaps a contemporary talent like opera-trained indie queen Caroline Polachek. Unlike Polachek, Happy has never taken a singing lesson in their 32 years. Yet when they take center stage in humble venues like the 24th Street BART station, Happy turns on a commanding presence, performing dozens of songs from memory with (literal) pitch-perfect execution.
Accompanying them at the Ferry Building was Samuel Johnson, who plucked an acoustic guitar while scanning the street for listeners. His playing is unadorned, but confident — he frames Happy's voice with jangling chords, propelling the music forward.
Johnson is Happy’s opposite in appearance: 63 years old, standing at 6-foot-2 and 240 pounds. Musically, Happy and Johnson are kindred spirits: street performers chasing creative alchemy — and a living — together.
“This is hard work. Real hard. Sometimes the hours go by and you don’t make a penny. But it’s special to connect with people. Music plays a role in all of us. And I haven’t gotten tired of it yet,” Johnson told me with a self-deprecating chuckle. His speaking voice is like high-grit sandpaper, delivered just above a whisper due to a chronic throat condition.
These days, tips are harder to come by than when Johnson first began busking 15 years ago. The streets are still quieter than they were before the pandemic, he says; the “current political climate” of fear, especially for immigrants, has only slowed business down, too. Some people have stolen from them. Others have mocked them merely for being on the sidewalk.
The situation is even more complicated for Little Happy because they have been blind since birth. Blindness does not imply a total lack of sight; many people with blindness can still perceive shapes, colors, and text in certain conditions. Happy, for example, can use a phone with accessibility aids to text and post online.
“I’ve gotten comments saying I’m not actually blind, that I’m faking it for money, people almost getting angry over it,” they said.
Happy doesn’t like talking about the disability as part of her creative identity. It detracts from the thing they obsess about: Performing, sometimes every single day, despite Johnson encouraging them to take a day off and rest their voice.
The duo specialize in stripped-back renditions of classic pop and rock songs, from Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love” to Alanis Morissette’s “Hand in My Pocket” to Coldplay’s “Yellow.” When the weather is warm, they set up outside the Ferry Building. As summer fades into fall, they’ll play a circuit of underground Muni stations, competing for space with other buskers escaping the rain.
Many of the songs they perform are tunes Little Happy grew up singing along to as a child. The duo’s repertoire consists of over 100 songs, with about 50-70 in rotation at any given moment. Both Johnson and Happy have separately composed original songs and played them on the street. While creatively fulfilling, such originals don’t draw the same crowd as the hits, the duo says. No matter — they both still believe that busking in San Francisco, and growing a fanbase through it, is the path ahead.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be famous or have recognition, but I do have my following now. I’m pleased with where I am. I’m content, and everything that comes next is just a benefit,” Happy said.
Johnson is Happy’s biggest cheerleader, effusing about their talent and positive attitude in the face of so much instability. The lifelong musician recalled being in the same Bay Area clubs as MC Hammer and Lenny Kravitz in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s; in a different timeline, he might’ve hit mainstream success alongside them, Johnson mused to me.
Johnson doesn’t want to live in the past, though. His mind is always racing with new ideas, curiosities, opportunities, and music. There is always more to do.
“It’s just about progress. I just want to keep moving forward,” he said. “And working with Little Happy has been a huge part of that journey.”
Made in the Bay
Little Happy isn’t their birth name — “If I have to give that, I’m probably in trouble!” they said with a laugh.
Their childhood was spent first in the East Bay, and then in San Diego, but what they remember best is their parents busking for a living, singing and playing instruments in downtowns and tourist hubs.
Music became a fascination for Happy, too. Artists like the Smiths, the Cure, and Depeche Mode formed their earliest influences. “I was the weird kid who didn’t play outside,” they recalled. “I sat in my room and listened to my mom and dad’s music collection.”
Later, like many people entering their twenties, Happy started to crave some space away from family. They headed back to the Bay Area a decade ago and enrolled in an independent living group for blind people to transition to solo life. They now spend their nights in a Motel 6 in Richmond, splitting the rent with an old friend. (“It’s easier in the hotel than an apartment. They ask for paperwork, fees, a deposit, proof you have three months’ rent ready. It’s too much.”)
Johnson is a San Francisco kid, born and raised in the city. He has lived in the Tenderloin for the last 35 years, working primarily as a chef until he lost the job in 2010. That career funded his musical passion project: making soulful funk and rock music under the moniker The Prophet Samuel. Johnson told me he invested more than $10,000 to record an album but then had no funds to market it, pay for a manager, or assemble a tour.
It was depressing, he admitted. Johnson grappled with the feeling of failure, but scraped together enough savings and willpower to try a different approach: Performing in public, to anyone who will listen. Even if it meant putting The Prophet on pause.
“The performers doing originals versus the guys doing covers, it wasn’t close in terms of the money. I remember that. So I said, ‘You know what? I don’t feel like being out here five hours for two bucks,’” Johnson said. “So I decided to learn a lot of new songs.”
Little Happy, meanwhile, decided to busk around 2015 after hearing a performer in a BART station while they were out in the city with friends. It didn’t take long for Happy to come to the same realization that covers, not originals, would generate attention for them.
“A lot of people told me I sounded like the Cranberries or Natalie Merchant. Of course, I never intentionally told myself, ‘You know, you should sing like Natalie Merchant,’” Happy said. “I guess after all those years of singing their songs, maybe my voice started to take on that style.”
There were a lot of hard days with no money for both, but also successes. Johnson fondly recalls playing Saturday nights at 16th and Mission streets in 2015 — “Bro, yeah, it was poppin’. All the bohemian cats and girls went to the Mission to party,” he effused.
Happy sought opportunities to perform in small venues around the Bay Area, including open-mic appearances at the Missouri Lounge in Berkeley and airtime on KOSC 89.9 FM, while steadily growing their fanbase. In a way, that base included Johnson, who had taken notice of Happy’s recognizable voice in Muni stations. He was curious about the blind person singing alone with a Bluetooth speaker around their neck. In hindsight, Johnson says Happy’s talent was “obvious.”
In 2019, he approached Happy with a question: Would they consider working with a guitarist?
The younger performer was unsure.
“I had collaborated with people before. When you leave home, you’re starry-eyed, hopeful, thinking someone will give you a big break,” Happy said with a gentle frown. “But I quickly learned that in a collaboration, not everyone has pure intentions. Sometimes, they aren’t looking out for you at all.”
In just a few sessions together, however, Little Happy and Samuel Johnson discovered a comfortable musical chemistry. The former gained confidence by working with a trusted accompanist; the latter felt a surge of energy with every new song they rehearsed.
Then 2020 arrived. The pandemic lockdowns decimated all forms of live music, including street performances. Happy and Johnson drifted apart, unsure of when — or if — they would reunite.
Four years later, in a reversal of roles, Little Happy was walking through the 16th Street BART station when they heard an acoustic guitar jangling away. “I would’ve recognized that playing anywhere,” Happy said.
It was Johnson. The two decided to collaborate again.
Step by step
Little Happy’s routine is a comfortable one now: They rise in the morning, head out to the BART station, and ride into SF, where Johnson awaits. If they’re lucky, the duo will run into a number of fans and supporters they’ve met over the years.
Once in a while, Happy is transported back in time.
“I still talk with my parents, and it’s insane how some people who used to tip them back in the day, they recognize me now and say, ‘Oh, you’re carrying on the family business!,’” they told me, head nodding with a giggle.
This summer has had its ups and downs, including in their earnings. Some hours generate an easy $60. Others pass without a single cent landing in the tip jar. Overall, the hustle is enough to keep them both afloat. It helps that they feel a sense of calm in each others’ company. There’s little pressure to bend to any particular will, they both tell me.
Johnson remains proud of the music he recorded as The Prophet Samuel, but the gradual loss of his voice over the last two decades, with no answers from doctors despite countless hospital visits, has been an obstacle. In almost vicarious fashion, Johnson now wants to help Little Happy become a bigger performer, too. His eyes brightened as he described a plan to save money, get Happy a proper band, jam around the city, and sell original music.
Happy has already dabbled in posting on Instagram as a way to recruit more fans and build an online presence. They released a short EP in 2017, using pro software like Logic to record and mix songs. Happy smiled when I described Johnson’s hopes for their future. They paused for a beat, then made a clarifying declaration: They will not, no matter what, be pigeonholed as a blind singer.
They’re currently penning a song dubbed “Anti-Wonder,” a kind of response to “Wonder” by Natalie Merchant. Happy says the latter is an ode to disabled people, with lines like, “With love, with patience, and with faith, she'll make her way…”
It is not an ode they appreciate.
“I love Natalie's music, but it's the same crap that I hear all the time. That people with disabilities are amazing, inspirational, we're remarkable. While other artists get recognized for their achievements,” Happy said with a roll of their eyes. “I live in a hotel and stuff my face with Taco Bell and binge-listen to the Smiths all day. If I’m an inspiration to anybody, they should probably go see a therapist.”
The quip made both of us laugh out loud. Maybe Happy is right. But as the afternoon went on, I noticed the duo’s music inspiring attention from every passerby, even if they didn’t stop to tip. Johnson is keenly aware of this — the people of San Francisco have shown endless generosity, in not just dollars but spirit, he said.
“We survive on their kindness. No one has to give us anything. But they do,” he added. “They are keeping two people housed in what is an impossibly expensive area. This is real community.”
As I departed the Ferry Building, I watched Happy and Johnson launch into a rendition of “Round Here” by Counting Crows.
“‘Round here, we're carving out our names…'Round here, we all look the same…”
A woman approached them both, a grin stretched across her face, unable to hold back her remark: “I love this song.”
Happy smiled back, face tilted up toward the sun.
