Shanon LaCorte '04 turned his term paper assignment into a look at some of New York City's subway musicians.
It is noon on a stormy Monday afternoon, and the rain is pouring down in midtown Manhattan. With Central Park drenched and the streets slippery, even a casual stroll is out of the question. But for a fee of two dollars you can attend a concert that will keep you dry and lasts as long as you can stand on your own two feet.
This performance is not publicized, and it takes place twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all year round. There is no usher to welcome you, only the steel escalator into the New York City subway-the stage for the dozens of musicians who take to New York's underground day in and day out. It is here that you can spend an entire day listening to everything from an Afro-Cuban drum to Spanish guitar and vocals.
Under a sixteen-year-old program called Music Under New York, funded by the Metropolitan Transit Authority's Arts for Transit office, close to 100 musicians obtain permits to play in various subway stops all over the city. The talented and fortunate few who do obtain permits (they audition for the privilege) are not paid, but they receive a “Music Under New York” banner and the “o.k.” from transit police. There are dozens more, however, who play without authorization.
Sandra Bloodworm, director of MTA's Arts for Transit, says that the feedback her office receives is generally positive. “New York is a challenge, and the music takes people's minds off the daily issues of life. It gives them a chance to pause and get caught up in the music.”
Behind each note is a talented artist striving to “get you caught up” in their tunes. Here are some of their stories:
The Beat of 42nd Street
Eugene Armstrong, 41, plays a ceremonial West-African drum at the Grand Central subway stop at 42nd Street. He sits on a small folding chair perched against a garbage can in the middle of the platform. His long dreads spill out of his Rastafarian hat, and he wears a black t-shirt stating “African American History Month.” As the dozens of commuters pass him by, he closes his eyes and focuses only on the sounds coming from his drum.
“I have had a relationship with music all of my life,” Armstrong says, noting influences of John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Max Roach. “This music is not mainstream at the moment, so I come underground to work among a culturally and ethnically diverse group. The subway has the most critical audience members you can find; they have zero tolerance for bad music. But music is a universal language, emotional and relational.”
He is very aware of the audience while he plays. When the 456 local train screeches by, he plays a loud, masculine beat to battle its sound. As the trains pass, he lowers the voice of his drum to a sultrier, feminine beat.
In the three years that Armstrong has played in the subway, he has learned that a certain “caste system” of respect exists among the various musicians-and that there is a certain camaraderie . When he was starting out, a street performing veteran taught him how to tune his drum to accommodate to the volatile weather conditions in New York. “When we see one another, it's customary to drop a little something in the basket,” he says. “It is also a good way to help each other out in finding gigs.”
Armstrong finds that playing in the subway has far more variables than playing in clubs. “It's wet in New York today. It makes my skin dry,” referring to the skin on his Indonesian Djembe drum. “I prefer to play in the cold. It makes the sounds resonate deeper into the tunnels.”
Armstrong attended Binghamton University, where he studied dance and took classes in Afro-Jazz music. He left college to quench his musical thirst and pursue a career in the arts. “I rely on my own skill to make something out of it.” He does exactly that, earning anywhere from two dollars for an entire day to sixty dollars for a single hour playing underground. His busiest time is 4:30 to 6:30, when the rush hour commuters are heading home.
In addition to making some cash and spreading Afro-Cuban music, Armstrong wants to affect people on a personal level in a place where they least expect it. “In post-9/11 society, New Yorkers seek healing. In this fast-paced concrete jungle, the echoing sound I produce can be very therapeutic for the soul.”
A Dynamic Duo at Lex
Just a few blocks uptown, as you step off the 456 into the Lexington Ave. station, you can hear a lone voice, harsh and raspy, singing “My Favorite Things.” After a dollar is placed in his bag, doubling as a collection plate and cooler for his lunch, Carlton stops mid-lyric to give a nod and say “thanks” to the generous commuter. He then leads straight into a poignant rendition of “Ain't No Sunshine.”
Carlton, who studied music at Howard University “way back,” sings in various jazz clubs all over New York. In the subway, you can hear him sing anything from R&B, jazz, and classical to gospel and pop. As he sings, a middle-aged man leaning on a steel beam provides a humming accompaniment.
As Carlton finishes, he takes note of my interest and says, “If you like me, stick around for this guy,” pointing to his backup singer, who has now picked up a guitar. He continues, “On a good day, you can hear my voice up top (the mezzanine level of the station). When people throw in, it's because they know it's me singing. If they don't put down, it's 'cause they don't like me.”
The two men shake hands as they trade off their small section of the platform/stage. “See you in a few,” says Carlton as he hops on the Queens-bound E train.
Equipped with a car battery, amplifier, and music box, Bob warms up his fingers on the guitar. He is the spitting image of Jimi Hendrix, wearing a dark blue bandanna, a Michigan sweatshirt, and tattered blue jeans. After about an hour of jamming, all that Bob has in his sack is the three dollars he began with. He makes his solos more technical and impressive, and the bills start falling in.
Most of the people who “put down” are young hippie-types and music enthusiasts. One young man stops for several minutes to take in an earful. “I just missed my train to hear this,” he says, embarrassed. “I play guitar, and he's real good.” Bob gives a head nod and a tip of his guitar.
Originally from St. Louis and now residing in Queens, Bob left behind a wife and daughter when he moved to the coast and supports them whenever he can. He is self-taught on the guitar, and recently quit his job working as a cashier at Wal-Mart. “I know it was a steady paycheck, but now I enjoy what I do, and I do what I love.”
Clarinet of Culture at Port Authority
From below the main concourse at the transfer terminal at the Port Authority, a faint melody guides your ear, with your feet sure to follow. It is “Glory, Hallelujah” performed by the Haitian-born clarinet player, Paul. Nestled on the side of a stairwell, he is wearing a brown suit with a brown hat. A carefully-placed cigar box is propped open atop a piece of luggage in front of him. It currently holds a few scattered coins.
With a smirk on his face he points to me and says, “I'm gonna play 'dis one for your father.” He starts his own twist on the song “La Cucaracha,” with a few scattered squeaks from the instrument here and there.
“Sorry 'bout 'dat. I can't afford no reeds,” he says regretfully.
“Perhaps this will help,” an observer says, slipping a five-dollar bill into Paul's box. His face lights up, and then he gets right back into character by playing “Für Elise.”
Paul immigrated to the United States fifteen years ago and has been playing in the subway without a permit for two years. Speaking with a thick accent out of the side of his mouth, he says that in Haiti he was a musician learning to play at a young age in school. He now resides in Brooklyn and works every opportunity he can find. He admits that he would like to teach music for a living but finds it difficult with a language barrier.
“When I'm not playin' up there, I'm playin' down here.”
Warming Union Square
If a soothing saxophone is what you seek, then Union Square is your stop. Lou stands about six feet tall, resting comfortably in his black suit and sneakers. With his tenor sax hanging around his neck, he checks out the people as they scurry by during rush hour.
He moved to the city in late July, all the way from the West Coast. With less than six months under his belt, Lou has few intentions of ever returning to the West. “The music out there is superficial, and just not very good. Here it's real.” And the New York audience is much more aware of a performer's integrity, he says. “They can tell if you're playing from the heart, putting yourself into it, or if you're full of bullshit.”
Lou had been used to playing private parties for a decent living. In New York, he has got street performing down cold. “It's not an exact science. What works for one person won't necessarily work for another.”
He often rotates the spot where he is going to play. One of his favorites is Canal Street; “there is a lot of reverb there, almost too much, but it makes for a nasty, frustrated blues.” He also likes to play under a bridge in Central Park, but the temperature is too cold for that now.
Lou admits that he makes much more money playing in the subway and on the streets than he ever did at a private party. “When you are at a club, the paycheck is guaranteed. Here people can feel obligated to pay. If I make eye contact with a person who is enjoying my sound, then they will feel guilty if they don't throw in. It's the New York way.”
A Personal Odyssey
What makes a talented musician quit his day job, or leave his home, to play in the subway? The only way to understand a battle is to get into the trenches. So I become a subway musician.
As the R train screams out of the subway stop at 49th Street and 7th Avenue in Manhattan, I pull the horn out of its leather case. My B-flat “French Besson” trumpet is so cold that the pitch is going to be a little sharp until I warm it up. I rub some gloss onto my lips to keep them from chapping in the chill. Skipping any traditional preparation, such as scales or long tones, I go right to it. With my first note I have become a New York City subway musician.
Officially, I am playing the New York underground illegally. But the transit cops never hassle me, and it isn't long before I find that the commuters take on a similar role. Perhaps it's because, with my faded sweatshirt, torn jeans, and three-day stubble, I fit the portrait of an authentic subway musician.
For my first tune, it is the swing standard “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Some people tap their feet or walk to the pace of my rhythm. Most people just scurry along. As soon as
the first song is done, two middle-aged women along with three young children approach me. Could this be my first tip?
“Do you know how to get to the World Trade Center from here?” asks one of the women.
Somewhat discouraged, I give the group accurate directions and continue to play. In the first two of the four consecutive hours spent at 49th and 7th, I would receive more questions about subway directions than anything else.
An hour has passed now. The trumpet has finally warmed up and so has my heart. The nerves swarming in the pit of my stomach have all but gone. The pitch of the horn is in the right spot and so is my head. I close my eyes and begin to play. I continue with a Miles Davis tune, “All Blues.” It starts off calm, like the sea before a storm. One graceful note after another fills the underground tunnels. I am not sure how the crowd is reacting because I cannot see them, but it is of no matter-it's just me and the music. I continue to build on each preceding note. Higher and faster, smoother and louder. The storm is now brooding. At the peak of the melody a train pulls into the station. It takes all of my lungs' capacity to match its metallic force.
The train pulls away, and the song has finished. In my mind I can picture the audience. It's a standing ovation for one of the most impressive and emotional performances I have ever given. I pull the mouthpiece from my lips as my eyes open. There is no one around me. Every passerby has just passed me by. All except for one young woman who stands directly in front of me.
“That was really awesome,” she comments, and then drops my first and only tip of the day-thirty-seven cents. I nod my head and say, “Thank you.”
“I really enjoyed that,” she continues.
By the end of the day, all I have to show for my four hours of music is the appreciation of one fan and a handful of change that will not even cover the cost of my metrofare. I decide that what attracts people to the musicians underground is a certain characteristic that cannot be learned in a music classroom. These musicians are permanent fixtures of New York culture-an eclectic group of men and women, young and old, who provide color and texture to a place where you would least expect.
The musicians of the New York City subway often go overlooked and underappreciated. Some are hoping to be discovered, while others struggle to get by. Some play for the practice and some for the thrill. They come from various cultural, ethnic, social, and economic backgrounds, but they all share one unequivocal value-their passion for music. The next time you venture into the maze of tunnels underneath New York City, separate the sounds of the cold steel from that of the warm melody, and a smile is guaranteed to come to your face.
Just be sure you leave a nice tip.
Shanon LaCorte
Shanon LaCorte has played the trumpet since the third grade, and he has always been interested in the street musicians he saw in New York when his father took him on the subway or to baseball games at Yankee Stadium.
So, when it came time to write his paper for Prof. Richard Fox's investigative journalism course, it seemed a natural to combine the interests. His first-person narrative combines insight into this little-known culture with an account of his day as a street musician.
“The goal of the class was to get the best story possible,” Shanon says. “Going from place to place in the subway, listening to musicians and then getting their stories, was great. If I had to do it again, I'd spend the entire term in New York, trying to be a street musician.”
Was he nervous? “Oh yeah, at first, but the first interview gave me confidence. I talked to about fifteen musicians by the time I was done.”
Shanon, a political science major and music minor, plans to go to law school next year, and he says music will continue to be a big part of his life. In fact, his dream law school would be Tulane, where he could combine study with playing New Orleans jazz.