PrintThe subway generally isn’t a place associated with culture—it’s usually a means to an end rather than a destination. The time it takes to go from point A to point B is seemingly unimportant, so much so that commuters become dormant, simply waiting until they can go above ground and back to “real” life.
But for subway musicians, the underground stations are venues. During busy New Yorkers’ traveling time, musicians thrive in the largely overlooked halls of Grand Central, Penn Station, and 116th and Broadway. Positioned at 25 different locations throughout the New York Transit System, these musicians work to create an enjoyable trip for the bustling commuter, provide entertainment for the common city dweller, and give a taste of New York to the uninitiated tourist.
Subway musicians fall into two general groups: those who are a part of Music Under New York (MUNY), a branch of Arts for Transit sponsored by the MTA, and those who aren’t. Potential MUNY musicians audition for a spot on the roster, earning the right to a designated station, a performance schedule, networking for gigs, and a banner identifying them. Musicians who are not part of MUNY cannot get permits and as a result are subject to expulsion by the police.
MUNY is the path to success in New York’s subway system. As Lydia Bradshaw, manager of MUNY, says, “We provide a venue for the musicians. It’s not about getting out of the subway. You can’t beat the audience ... you’re reaching so many people. Playing in a subway is just great.” The relationship between the musicians and the audience is symbiotic—not only are the musicians reaching a huge audience, but as Bradshaw says, “We want the subway to be a nice environment for commuters to pass through.”
But wait a second—“Playing in a subway is just great”? Aren’t subway musicians struggling to make ends meet? Isn’t the life of any musician, let alone a subway musician, strenuous, especially in the current economy? I set out to find out the truth about these people: who are they, and how do they make it big underground?
These questions are reminiscent of an investigation conducted by The Washington Post in 2007. During that experiment, famed violinist Joshua Bell performed in a Washington D.C. subway for 43 minutes. In that time, only 7 people stopped for more than a minute, and only 27 gave money for a total of $32—out of the 1070 people who rushed by. According to the Post, the experiment raised the question, “In a banal setting ... at an inconvenient time ... would beauty transcend?” Although not every subway musician is on par with Joshua Bell, the question still pertains to the arguably more cultured population of New Yorkers.
Tracking down and interviewing subway musicians is surprisingly difficult. The first two musicians I speak with don’t speak English, and don’t look too thrilled by my attempts to speak Spanish. A guitarist who asks to meet later—at his house no less—never shows up at Starbucks (where I rerouted him), and never calls me back. A violin student from Manhattan School of Music playing Bach sonatas at 116th and Broadway flat out ignores me.
Finally, I make my way down to 34th Street and encounter a MUNY band called Floyd Lee and the Mississippi Delta Blues. Lee is an old black man with a silver beard, droopy eyes and a top hat. His back-up guitarist, Tadaaki Ilkemasu, is young, thin, and wears a leather jacket. They’re nestled in an alcove, halfway between the platforms for the 1 and the ACE trains: an ideal location. As I approach, the pungent scent of alcohol grows stronger and stronger.
The group’s percussionist, Andy Smith, tells me about Lee and his legacy with MUNY. Born in 1933, Lee was one of the original musicians who founded MUNY in 1985, and since then he’s been a judge on the audition panel. “When Floyd was a kid he got a different kind of musical training, on the front porch of his house from his father, Guitar Floyd, down south in Mississippi,” says Smith. As he places copies of the band’s CDs and DVDs in front of Lee, whose real name is Ted Williams, Smith continues: “The reason he likes having me around is because he usually makes more money with a drummer than without.”
Smith, dressed in a suit, has had an unusual career, as far as subway musicians go. “I’m one of the only white collar musicians around,” he says. “Music has been a hobby of mine for about three quarters of my life, it’s a side thing—I haven’t been making much of a living in music.” Instead, he works in computers at Standard & Poor’s. “Most of the musicians don’t have steady jobs, but Floyd does it for a living,” he says wistfully.
Floyd Lee’s position as a subway musician is desirable compared to others. He’s internationally renowned, having performed at Moscow’s first blues festival as well as in North Korea and Japan. The group’s record income was $80 for each musician over three to four hours. “You have to be in the right place at the right time or you won’t make anything,” says Smith, which means Herald Square, Grand Central or Penn Station at rush hour, or the Friday before Thanksgiving and Christmas. “The hard economic times are hitting these guys as well—people don’t willingly give up a buck or two,” he explains.
Although Floyd Lee’s configuration of two guitarists, a drummer and sometimes a vocalist is somewhat conventional, unusual and progressive groups representing uncommon genres, instruments, and styles also play underground. The roster of about 100 musicians and 125 weekly performances is endless in its variety and exoticism. When asked what the panel of 25 judges—composed of musicians, music professionals and transit representatives— is looking for, Bradshaw says, “We look for quality, variety and appropriateness for the subway environment. We’re always looking for music that reflects the people of New York City.”
After experiencing the blues, I make my way up to Columbus Circle and encounter Professor Edwardo Alvarado, an old man with slicked back grey hair and a navy blue suit. He hunches over his keyboard and plays popular melodies over a recorded accompaniment with uncanny spirit and a slightly sinister charm. The highlight of his act is the four dancing dolls haphazardly taped onto the keyboard. They dance and sway with the push of a button, and Alvarado has to push these buttons every two minutes while playing his keyboard to keep them going—a difficult task indeed.
At 34th Street I briefly speak to MUNY musician Kahn Hightower, a self-proclaimed “singer/songwriter/producer/entertainer” who sings for half an hour straight. I listen to his highly theatrical voice and watch his disco dance moves, as his curly-haired 7-year-old daughter waits patiently on a chair beside him. When he finally stops, he says, “We’ve just done a documentary, baby, the two of us, that is,” pointing to his beaming daughter, “and we don’t want to spread ourselves too thin.” Apparently, these musicians are getting more publicity than you’d think.
As I continue through the station, I hear a lustrous, deep voice coming from around the corner. The singer wears a MUNY t-shirt and moves her hands in the air like a diva to help her hit pitches. Her name is Shaquene Felder, and after singing some Rihanna and Christina Aguilera, she notices the large crowd and says, “You all are still standing here, so I guess I better keep singing!”
Felder has been singing in the NYC subways for almost 10 years. She started when she was a 14-year-old student at Talent Unlimited High School and joined MUNY right after her father did. She says it didn’t make much of a difference to her whether her singing was legal or not since the cops never bothered her. Over the years people have offered her gigs and asked her to perform at weddings and shows, and to record for independent labels.
Felder says that singing in the subway has become familiar, just like any other job. “It’s like one big family down there, especially when you see someone every day. Whenever I make money, when I’m done and I see somebody, I usually drop a dollar in their basket, keeping the flow going, supporting each other,” she elaborates.
Felder also produces, composes, and does sound mixing. She’s grateful for the opportunity to play in subways: “It helps. I don’t have a regular job, this is my job, five days a week for five hours each day, it helps, it really does,” she says. Felder usually makes about $130 in four hours, but for her, money is second to music. “Music is the way of the world,” she says. “We need to try and keep real music alive.”
Unfortunately, not all subway musicians are as optimistic as Andy Smith and Shaquene Felder. On the platform of the Lincoln Center station at 66th, a saxophonist and flautist named Martin Jennings plays classical music and popular tunes. Jennings is not a MUNY musician because he found the permit unnecessary. He fought for his right to play at 66th street after a series of summonses. “I consider MUNY to be an unhelpful way of trying to reduce us and take power over us,” he says in an e-mail. Instead, Jennings prefers to remain independent and finds Lincoln Center concert-goers to be the most attentive and appreciative audience. “My best times have been when I play famous opera themes after the Met comes out. The audience ... appreciates a sense of humor and pleasure when they are fresh from beholding the high class quality of the Grand Show,” he writes.
Jennings unfortunately thinks that his subway platform venue is not ideal: “The noise and dirt are horrible. Sometimes I can reach the ethereal plane of true quality and other times the grubby, grimy low-down of subway crudeness defeats my efforts!” He has also been severely affected by the recession and is forced to play more hours than he would like, “wasting a lot of time on people who don’t care about me.” His bitterness towards money is very pronounced in his e-mail. As he puts it, “Money messes up all of our lives really because it is the answer to our dreams if we can ever get enough of it, but we never really ever do!”
What really stands out about subway musicians—and by extension, all musicians—is that their vocation is a selfless one. While working to earn a living, they are trying to please their audiences by sharing something beautiful. Although some commuters may not appreciate a particular song or set, these musicians always find a way to connect with their commuter-listeners, evoking pity, sympathy, curiosity, or just plain awe.