SINGAPORE: At 8.45pm on a Friday in March, in an open-air square at One Holland Village, 29-year-old Bryan Wong calls out to passers-by.
“Yes, come around me please,” he says, waving a young family over. A small crowd gathers.
For the next half hour, he dazzles them with acrobatic stunts using props like a leviwand – a stick that appears to float on an almost invisible string – and hula hoops.
For his final act, Wong brings out a Cyr wheel, a single aluminium ring slightly taller than he is.
He steps into the wheel and, with a small shift of weight, sets it in motion. He spins – each rotation smooth and steady.
The movements open into wide, sweeping arcs, like turns across a ballroom floor. To keep the wheel moving, he shifts between his hands and feet.
Gradually, the wheel picks up speed. The rotations tighten, faster and faster, until he becomes a blur.
The audience breaks into applause. Wong steps out of the wheel, bows and places a hat in front of him.
Some step forward to drop in cash, while others scan a QR code on a laminated sign.
The process goes like clockwork, honed since Wong left office life in 2022 to busk full time, performing twice a week at Clarke Quay.
But foot traffic at that once reliable spot is dropping.
“Friday used to be good, but these days it’s getting worse,” he observes. “It seems Singaporeans aren’t going out as much as before, and every year there’s more rain.”
Wong is now experimenting with new busking spots like One Holland Village and Rainforest Wild Asia. He is also trying to reduce busking to one day a week while maintaining his income.
Similar stories are being told about Orchard Road.
Between 2016 and 2022, Muhammad Harith Matin – who goes by the name “Rex” – was a familiar sight at the pedestrian walkway outside Wisma Atria.
He performed four nights a week, sometimes more, earning around S$250 (US$196) a session.
Today, Rex no longer busks.
A new balloting system introduced in 2022 that requires performers to reserve fixed time slots has made it harder to justify his sessions, which include elaborate set-ups involving speakers and lighting equipment.
“By the time I finish setting up, half my time is gone,” he says.
For both performers, what was once a vibrant, communal craft now feels increasingly constrained, squeezed by shrinking crowds, unpredictable weather and tighter regulations.
Street performance in Singapore is becoming harder to sustain, and some buskers are walking away.
Why buskers are busking less
According to the National Arts Council (NAC), there are now more than 500 people in Singapore who are permitted to busk, an increase from around 300 in 2019.
But while more locations have been added, buskers say they have noticed fewer are performing.
Norman Mohd Yusof, an acoustic singer who has been busking since 2012, notes that the NAC website shows which buskers are performing regularly – and some who used to be active no longer book slots.
Karyn Wong, who juggles busking with paid gigs, says: “I really like to busk, but I can’t make a lot of money (through busking). I perform on the streets only when I have free time.”
The 36-year-old says she has noticed that her peers are busking less as well.
Buskers point to several reasons, one of which is that audience behaviour is changing.
“In the past, passers-by would stop and watch. Now, fewer people do,” says Michelle Chua, 48, a guzheng busker. She is not sure why people’s behaviour has changed.
“While there may be more buskers officially in the system today, it does not necessarily mean more people are actively busking,” adds Chua, who is on the Busking Consultative Committee (BCC), a 15-member group appointed by the NAC.
The committee consists of buskers, venue partners, arts experts and agency representatives. They come together to review policies and tackle common challenges.
Based on feedback from performers, NAC now requires experienced buskers to audition only once every four years, instead of annually as in the past.
Their letters of endorsement are also valid for two years, up from one previously, with the option to renew for a further two through an online form.
Another reason for a fall-off in performances may be changes to the balloting system, which have made popular locations less attractive.
Buskers who once performed regularly at certain spots now have to ballot like everyone else for fixed time slots.
“Those who only get one-hour slots at busy areas like Ang Mo Kio, Tiong Bahru, One Holland Village and MRT stations often give up,” says Chua. “It’s not worth the time and effort to travel, set up and perform for such a short period.”
Many buskers prefer longer slots to make their time worthwhile. Chua adds that places like Ngee Ann City and Mandarin Gallery remain popular, as fewer people ballot for them, making it easier to secure longer three- or four-hour slots.
As a result, more buskers are moving away from crowded hot spots and choosing quieter locations where they can perform for longer.
A tightly managed street stage
Busking in Singapore may look casual, but it is in fact a tightly managed ecosystem where image, regulation and income collide.
In a city that once banned busking and now audits performers, runs balloting for marked-out performance spots and constantly reviews rules, street artistes must clear high bars of professionalism even as some still dismiss them as “beggars”.
Performers in Singapore must first get a letter of endorsement (LOE) from the NAC, which requires passing an audition.
Buskers perform only at designated locations, usually within a three by five metre area.
They can book up to six one-hour slots a day through an online portal, if they can get them.
Designated locations are open for booking on the first and 15th of each month, with a ballot system in place for popular locations
What follows is a digital scramble, as performers race to secure the best spots before they disappear.
“The day before booking, I already feel very gan cheong,” says Chua with a laugh, using the Cantonese term for “nervous”.
“Your fingers literally shiver trying to grab a good spot.”
Auditions are brief but intense: Performers get five minutes to set up and five minutes to play for a panel of three arts professionals. Judges assess competency and skill in performance, expressiveness and confidence, and the ability to engage a live audience.
“I look for passion and preparedness. Even the most talented musician won’t impress if their set-up fails,” says one judge.
He adds that even though performances are technically free for audiences, the bar is set high.
“If anything, buskers need to be exceptional. The Singapore public can be a tough crowd. You have to make someone stop, applaud and maybe even tip. There’s no obligation for them to stay, so quality really matters,” says the jazz musician, who also manages a theatre-focused arts organisation.
About half of all audition applicants fail on their first try.
Wong knows the challenge well.
Before pursuing performing full time, she worked as a flight attendant as well as in marketing and event organisation. Singing, for her, was always just a hobby.
During the Covid-19 pandemic, she tried her hand at performing through live streaming, but longed to perform in person.
Her first busking audition in 2021, held at the National Library Building, ended in failure.
“We auditioned as a duo called The Singing Fairies, and the judge asked how many songs we had. Around 50, but apparently that wasn’t enough,” she recalls, laughing.
Undeterred, she tried again – both solo and with her friend – and finally earned her LOE.
In a parliamentary reply in April 2019, then Minister for Culture, Community and Youth Grace Fu said roughly 80 per cent of the 600 available audition slots were filled.
Since then, the busking community has grown steadily. Now, there are more than 500 buskers with valid LOEs, and audition slots reach almost full capacity during each audition cycle.
“In other countries, anyone can busk – they can perform anything, anywhere,” says Tai Yisheng, a home-grown singer-songwriter who has been busking since 2022.
But he sees both the advantages and disadvantages of Singapore’s higher barriers to entry for aspiring buskers.
“Because of the auditions, the quality of street performances is usually higher,” says Tai, who also works as a freelance sound engineer.
At the same time, he wonders: Does being a little rough around the edges mean someone does not deserve to be heard?
“Maybe for some, busking is just a side income. But for others, it could be a way to express themselves,” he adds.
Finding the right corner
Earning the right to busk is just the beginning. The next challenge is deciding where to perform – and understanding what makes a “good” spot.
In 2022, Singapore’s busking scene changed significantly when the NAC moved from a fixed-location model to a flexible online booking system.
Before, each busker had five approved locations, but there was no way to reserve them. There was always a chance someone else would arrive first.
“Previously, you had to fight for a spot and wait for others to finish busking,” says Wong.
Some buskers even held a spot for the entire day, which was unfair to others, notes Tai.
But not all buskers welcomed the change. Those who relied on a predictable, familiar location found the new booking system challenging, as slots now went to whoever booked them the fastest.
Rex, for example, a familiar presence in Orchard Road between 2016 and 2022, stopped busking because of the new booking system.
“Sometimes, I have a bigger set-up – speakers, lights, batteries. By the time I finish setting up, half my time is gone,” he says.
“It doesn’t make sense to take 30 to 45 minutes to set up only to perform for about an hour.”
As a full-time busker, the 29-year-old performed at least four evenings a week, typically from 5pm to 10pm, sometimes later.
Securing a spot was “insanely hard”, Rex recalls, and he would arrive at around 4pm to claim a place for the evening.
While some buskers found sharing locations challenging, Rex said it was rarely an issue for him.
“Spaces like outside Wisma Atria were large enough for more than one act. We would just share the space. That’s when busking was fun.”
These informal arrangements helped foster a sense of community among performers.
“We earned money together. We performed our craft together. We were like friends on the street,” he says.
Today, Rex works full time at an events company, but he still performs at private functions, such as weddings and large-scale events, including Togetherland, a Christmas festival held at Marina Bay at the end of 2025. “I will always love performing. I will never stop completely,” he says.
A long street history, and a reset
Long before Netflix, stadium tours and mega concerts, Singapore’s entertainment scene was powered by the street: storytellers holding court at Boat Quay, and wayang troupes staging performances during temple festivals, deity birthdays and community celebrations.
Up until the late 1980s, buskers drew crowds in public squares and along busy thoroughfares. But without regulation, street performances came to be seen as chaotic in a rapidly modernising city.
In 1992, the NAC introduced a formal busking scheme as a pilot, allowing artistes to perform in selected public areas.
However, there was a catch: All proceeds had to be donated to charity.
Many buskers failed to comply, and the scheme was soon discontinued. Busking was banned in Singapore between 1994 and 1997.
Legal busking returned to Singapore in 1997, starting with just three approved sites. Today, the scene has grown significantly.
In 2023, the NAC set up the BCC.
“The platform lets buskers, venue partners and agencies discuss issues together,” says Aruna Johnson, NAC’s director of access and community engagement.
“Locations are regularly reviewed for performance suitability and public safety.”
Since 2024, NAC has added more than 40 new sites. By early 2026, Singapore boasted over 90 busking spots – from the heartland and food centres to transport hubs.
“Busking is being brought into everyday spaces,” says Johnson.
“Locations are chosen not just for geographical spread but also to accommodate different acts. Larger performances have specific space requirements that some busking venues like Rainforest Wild Asia, Ion Orchard and Marina Bay are able to provide. Accessibility, amenities and public transport are also key considerations.”
Danial Razak, 34, who lives in Tampines, regularly encounters buskers in his neighbourhood.
“I think it adds vibrancy to the neighbourhood. If a performer is singing a song I enjoy, I will often stop for a few minutes on my way to the train station,” says the freelance video editor.
Many assume that busy areas like Orchard Road or Marina Bay bring in the most money. But buskers say that is not always true.
Some central spots are surprisingly unpopular. Take the open space at Dhoby Ghaut Green.
“Maybe it’s too hot, maybe it depends too much on the weather, maybe the tips aren’t good – I’m not sure,” says Wong.
Instead, she sometimes chooses places where “nobody busks”, such as certain malls or heartland areas, seeing them as opportunities to work on her craft.
“Heartland and non-central spots feel lower-pressure. I make friends with kids, families and elderly people. I can be less rigid and use these spaces to try new things and grow as a performer,” she says.
For Chua, who has been busking actively for four years, these “underrated” heartland areas can be just as rewarding.
Her most profitable spot is Ang Mo Kio Central, where many seniors enjoy her music. On public holidays, her tips there can reach four figures.
“I put effort into my outfit, I memorise my score, I watch how the audience reacts, and I try to put on a good show,” she says.
“I really like busking. It’s fun, and it gives me a chance to practise and try out songs,” Wong says, noting that it doesn’t always pay much.
“If you see busking as a way to grow – to build confidence and perform without the pressure of messing up someone else’s event – it gives you a lot of freedom to improve,” she adds. - The Straits Times/ANN
