Subway Music

A Washington Post article entitled “Pearls Before Breakfast” reminded me of the pictures I took recently of a Chinese violin player and a tipsy Russian gentleman at the 57th Street subway stop.

The article recounted what happened when a world-renowned violin player played in a Washington subway station. People generally ignored him. Children and a few adults with a classical music background were the few notable exceptions.

The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother’s heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.

I wonder if I would have rushed by. I think I would have noticed him at least and possibly stopped. For one, he was playing with a 1710 Stradivarius. The article goes into length about its tonal qualities. I can hear how rich it must have sounded through the article's embedded video. And two, I like the violin. Violins are the only instruments that can cry.

So my pictures are of two immigrants keeping each other company. The Russian sat with his back to a red beam and would bellow “boo-tee-full, so byoot-ee-full” between, above, and below the violin’s notes. At the end of a song, the player would sustain a note a beat or two longer than usual, and his new friend would enthusiastically clap, hold his hands to his heart and shout, “Dank Yu.”

I used to see this violin player more often when I used to work in midtown. He always sat on a subway bench, legs crossed, and his portable speaker accompanied his classical melodies. After work, after the initial school’s-out-for-summer euphoria ebbs, his music was a tonic. The train would howl on arrival and I would quickly donate my spare change before going home.

The world-class musician in the Washington metro station said:

At a music hall, I’ll get upset if someone coughs or if someone’s cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change. When you play for ticket-holders, you are already validated. I have no sense that I need to be accepted. I’m already accepted.

The Chinese musician is not famous. In the picture, he's actually playing below Carnegie Hall. He doesn’t have a Stradivarius. The man doesn’t rise on his tippy-toes and sink to his seat on low notes. He just plays and hundreds of people must ignore him daily. On this afternoon, however, the drunk Russian was his greatest fan. He had the $300 seats and was making sure the violin player knew how majestic he was after having waited overnight at the box office.

And you know what? I've heard this musician play numerous times and it sounded like he was playing a lot better knowing that he had to live up to this guy's appreciation. And it was the first time I saw the musician smile.