Have now been here nearly three weeks. Shelled out the cash for a monthly Metro pass the first woozy morning back, have been airing it out on a daily basis, often 3, 4, 5 times a day. A thread running through many of those trips: musicians. In trains, in station hallways, out on the street outside Metro entrances.
For instance: Peruvian dudes. Or Andean. You know. With guitars, pan flutes, homemade gizmos for percussion. Groups of 2 to 5 (always male), cranking out extremely catchy tunes, impossible to dislike. They show up on a regular basis during Metro rides, rushing in when the doors have opened at a stop, finding a place to stand, launching into a song. Doing a number that lasts to the next station or maybe one more, passing through the car holding out a pouch for change, disappearing off into the next car.
I usually ride the Metro on my feet, leaning against a door, wading through a book. Interruptions are always welcome distractions. Or, well, almost always. A couple of weeks back a tall, slim male stepped in the door at a stop, a small amp entering with him, strapped to a handcart. He stopped directly in front of me, held a microphone to his mouth, began crooning out a muzacky ballad, reverbed voice slithering in and out of syrupy strings that oozed from the amp as accompaniment. A bona fide karaoke nightmare. Loud enough that moving down the car didn't provide enough relief -- at the next station, I fled to a different car, giving thanks that I wasn't worried about whether or not my hasty exit might hurt crooning dude's feelings.
(Another kind of interruption: individuals who appear, launch into a loud, slow, lugubrious, heavily practiced speech asking for money, their vibe often so creepy that everyone in the car looks down, waits until the individual has finished, passed through the car and disappeared. Every now and then someone who is clearly in genuine need appears, their speech coming from the heart, not manufactured. They get money.)
Musicians are fixtures around heavily-traveled stations. Often doing music +1 renditions, playing along to a tape or CD. Guitar, harmonica, keyboard. One older male -- late 50's? -- dressed all in black (shirt and jeans scarily form-fitting), sings an unnerving version of 'Hotel California,' boombox accompaniment resonating through the hallways. A 60ish woman stands to one side of a busy passageway in the station at Sol, gray hair pulled back and up, sawing away at a violin -- putting in long hours, clearly serious about it. Not professional but, compared to some I've seen, not bad.
There used to be a skinny heavy-metal 20-something who haunted station passageways in the city center. Clad completely in black, standing with legs apart, feet firmly planted, long black hair swinging as he thrashed away at a long-suffering guitar, relentless chordage churning out of a small amp so that he was always heard long before he was seen. I even spotted him now and then on Gran Vía, thrashing away, not looking at passersby, ragged music boiling out of his amplifier. Haven't seen him at all this time around.
These people have an impact on my day, almost always positive -- doesn't matter (mostly) what kind of music they're producing. Just the fact of them being there brings color, life to what would otherwise just be transit. And every now and then I cross paths with the genuine article.
Two or three days ago: a saxophone player sat in a passageway between train platforms. Mid-morning, not many travelers about -- his bum rested on his tiny amp, a lovely Miles Davis track played, he blew lilting, relaxed saxophone lines that weaved easily through the tune. I stopped and listened until he took a pause, thanked him, dropped coins into his bag. He had an easy smile, responded to my thanks in softly-accented Spanish, possibly Argentinian. As I walked away another tune started up, he played along, eyes closed, in no rush at all, saxophone singing sweetly.
That one encounter made my day.
España, te echo de menos
rws 7:05 AM [+]
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