Imagine buses rumbling in from many directions, cars and taxis moving in complicated patterns, the entrance to the metro station witnessing streams of people in both directions, pedestrians walking on the sidewalks or crossing the road (one of the many at the crossing) with great purpose and haste, and the odd tourist looking lost, trying to make sense of this chaos. We are all familiar with such places, busy crossings of big cities, like the Columbus Circle in Manhattan or the Shyambazar 5-point crossing in Calcutta.
Or imagine a big underground station, with eight or nine entrances opening up to different parts of the area, many lines intersecting at the station and trains running every minute on one line another, a huge number of people always moving with great pace, often running, to catch the next train, which is always about to leave in this busy station (and people find it very difficult to wait for the next train without an attempt). There are many like this station in the big cities, like Bank in central London or Gare Du Nord in Paris.
Now imagine a musician, with his guitar or flute (of some kind) or saxophone or violin or some unknown instrument from China or the Andes, sitting or standing in a small corner of this chaos. Imagine him playing a tune similar to something you know, but not the same; the medium tempo of his playing releasing the notes and the tune into the huge busy crossing, like a mysterious cloud shrouding the reality underneath. If one waits long enough listening to the tune, then all the noise and chaos of the surrounding becomes a big blur and the music plays on, louder and clearer. You are a passer-by; hence the music doesn’t have a beginning or an end. Occasionally a coin drops in his guitar case or the hat kept upside down in front of him. He acknowledges, thanks and then plays on. I love the street music and the musicians.
There was a guy whom I heard singing a couple of times on the platform of the 86th Street underground station in Manhattan. Again that medium tempo strumming of the guitar and the soft singing of an unknown (for me) song. When the train came, he would stop singing but continue to strum on his guitar, leaning against the wall. Then when the train was gone and the rumbling noise fainted, he would just lend his voice, continuing from where he left. One night, at the 59th Street underground station, I saw an old man playing a flute. I think it was around 10 PM on a Sunday, the station was quite empty at that time and there was very little potential of earning. Normally one would think that it would be wise to go home and rest after a long day’s work; but the old musician thought otherwise, sitting on the wooden bench of the station and playing. He had his eyes closed, no anxiety in his face; he was playing with the calm and confidence of a person who was in perfect term with the surroundings.
I found another old man on the walking street (Stroget) of Copenhagen. He also used to play the flute. His playing was strange and nothing like I have ever heard before. In the beginning it wouldn’t sound like music at all; rather a quick, shrill and continuous sound varying between the same two or three notes, like someone trying to play something but not being able to. His dress was particularly shabby and I took him to be a madman in the beginning. But then, after a while, when that sound persisted, it created a strange sense of an anchor and continuity in the middle of that busy street. I am not sure if the old man really wanted to play that or something else but was unable to. I have never seen anyone ever throwing anything for his music, but the old man continued, through the winter in Copenhagen.
Sometimes the musicians are really professional and purposeful. A group of South Americans used to play excellent Andean music at the 34th Street, Penn station in New York. They had a banner and used to sell their CD. I saw many people stopping to listen and pay. I think they earned a good amount. May be, they were successful musicians of their country; only playing in the New York City metro perhaps paid more.
There were also two individual musicians I remember for their quality of music. One of them played excellent violin on the underground Bank station in London. The other was an older man playing the saxophone near the Oslo Central station. It was a winter day and snowing. He placed an umbrella (somehow), sat on a chair and played just opposite the station at the beginning of the walking street. He was an excellent musician, playing the notes with perfection, feeling and depth, sometimes soft and sometimes loud, filling the air of that Scandinavian wintery city-center with melody and melancholy. It was the busiest place of the city though the day being a Sunday and cold and snowing, the number of people was relatively less. But the man continued playing at the same place, in his patched up clothes, one eye swollen and closed (he seemed to have some problem in that eye). I crossed that point four times in five hours and always heard him play. I didn’t see anyone paying him, and only the destitute-looking locals occasionally coming and talking to him. It seemed they all loved him.
The street musicians have given me much more in pleasure than I have given them in return. I think the musicians feel the same about the street. I met a saxophone player in New Jersey, playing at the corner of a road adjoining a park. I liked his music a lot, walked up to him, talked and befriended. He called himself Dusty, I don’t know whether it was his real name, nickname or some other name. Later I found him write this following post (very slightly edited) on his relations with the streets – “the streets of Newark nj made, raised me to be a man as I had no healthy example anywhere else, the street provided me with mothers like Ann Ewell, Cora Williams, Toni Lowe, and fathers like Billy Phipps, Malik, Bill Ware, Aaron Bell, Barry Harris…; It was the streets that nurtured me, that rich history of my street family is my backbone. The streets provided me with a rich black culture to rise up in the streets, even more recently the streets provided me with a safe home on benches, and subways, in hallways, away from the dangers of living in the shelter. The streets provided for me and the saying goes do not bite the hands that feed you…., so while not glorifying the negative, I am appreciative of all the courage and wisdom and realness that the street continues to provide. The street feeds my family, it provides me the financial independence, I am a very educated street nigger and am happy, really happy. The street has provided me a home in Riker’s Island (author’s note: the main jail complex of New York City), the Green Monster when I was at my lowest and raised me up to be proficient in Criminal Law, Civil Law, Probate Law, International and Corporate Law. The streets also continue to feed me physically, morally and most importantly, spiritually. I wanna thank every so called niggas and bitches that kept me safe when I probably would have destroyed myself …, I married the street and do not want a divorce.”
My best regards to all the street musicians of the world for bringing sanity in the madness!